The Addleton Tragedy & the Ancient British Barrow
by Westron Wynde
Summary: One may choose one's friends, said Holmes, not one's family. Just as well that one member of the family redeems himself by bringing Holmes a suspicious death with elements of the grotesque and supernatural in one of Watson's unpublished cases. COMPLETE!
1. Chapter One

_**The Addleton Tragedy and the Mystery of the Ancient British Barrow**_

**Chapter One: The Strange Events at Addleton **

In recalling the events at Yoxley Old Place in that singular episode of _The Golden Pince-Nez_, I fear I have been guilty of tantalising my readers with reference to the sheer wealth of material at my disposal when choosing to recount certain of the cases in which Mr Sherlock Holmes has been involved.

I find myself often inundated with kind inquiries and interest in particular cases which I may have mentioned in passing, if only to indicate the extreme variety in the nature of the affairs brought before my friend's attention. The majority of these must remain buried until such time as the principal players are far removed from hint of scandal; others are rejected on the grounds of Mr Holmes's own preference as being slight in their worth.

Where we are of a similar mind is in the recounting of the Addleton Tragedy and the singular contents of the ancient British barrow, which caused so much speculation at the time. Quite assuredly it was one of the more memorable cases in which I had the pleasure of assisting Holmes and not solely because of the undoubtedly personal nature of the business which brought the case to our door.

That year of Holmes's return to London was a particularly busy one. At times, it seemed to me as though the country had breathed a collective sigh and had promptly began to unburden itself of those problems which had accumulated in his absence. Often he was spoilt for choice for cases and I found myself called upon frequently to assist him in the pursuance of some minor detail.

The completion of such an errand was the cause of my returning early that blustery September morning to Baker Street, in high spirits at what I considered a job well done. By this time, I had sold my practice and returned to our rooms, an arrangement which I found suited me well enough. Some places resonate too loudly with grief for the deceased, and Kensington then spoke as keenly of my recent loss had once Baker Street.

Time was when I could not bear to pass our old rooms without my eyes being drawn upwards to those curtained windows and feeling the tug of old memories and the sadness for a friend lost. Now, however, I was glad to be in harness once again, and happier still to be returning home with all due haste, eager to regale Holmes with the information I had gleaned.

Turning into our road, I was pleasantly surprised to see a lean, familiar figure at our door – a sight, which after so long an absence, is never likely to pall – and I called out his name, hoping to arrest his entrance so that we might take coffee in Martin's. I fear my voice did not carry above the rattle of the cabs and the noise of the workmen, for the door opened and he vanished inside.

I hurried after him as quickly as the throng of children playing on the street would allow, and very shortly was through the front door. Mrs Hudson took my things, and I was disconcerted to note her somewhat distracted manner and wide-eyed appearance.

"Mrs Hudson, are you quite well?" I asked.

"Quite well, Doctor, thank you."

"Are you sure? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Quite possibly," said she, shaking her head. "Indeed, most probably."

Leaving the perplexed Mrs Hudson, I proceeded up the stairs. The sitting room door was closed and through it drifted the muted sound of voices. Holmes's rich tones I could clearly identify, even as muffled as they were, and then spoke another voice, so similar in disposition that I was convinced he was talking to himself. If so, the conversation was fraught and distressing, for the second voice conveyed an edge of panic bordering on the hysterical, which was quite unlike the measured timbre of my friend.

Clearly then, he had a client, and I was torn between making my presence known and quietly creeping upstairs to my room to await a more convenient moment. The decision was snatched from my hands when a languid voice rose up loud and clear.

"There's no need for you skulk outside like a scullery maid, Watson," came Holmes's voice. "Do come in and join us."

I was quite appalled that my attempt at consideration should have been thus misconstrued and entered without hesitation and full of apologetic explanation. Whatever I had intended to say, however, flew from my head the moment I stepped over the threshold, for the sight that met my eyes was quite extraordinary.

Holmes sat in his usual chair beside the fireplace, his old clay pipe clamped between his teeth and wreath of grey smoke drifting above his head. Opposite him was what for one moment I thought was another of those life-like wax effigies created by Monsieur Oscar Meunier of Grenoble. My shock was absolute when this vision turned its head in my direction and offered an affable, albeit anxious, smile of greeting.

"Ah, Doctor," said Holmes; "allow me to introduce someone. Dr Watson, my cousin, Mr Peregrine Holmes. Perry, my friend, the estimable Dr Watson."

"Pleased to meet you, sir," said Peregrine Holmes, rising from his chair to shake my hand. "I have read your accounts of my cousin's cases with great interest."

"Cousin?" I echoed numbly.

"In particular, I found the case of the Musgrave Ritual most instructive indeed, although, Doctor, I must say that my enjoyment was somewhat marred by the appearance of a split infinite, which I felt quite jarred the flow of the paragraph. And there was the use of the gerundive in one instance, which I felt quite unwarranted, for the statement would have been better conveyed by –"

"Perry, _absit iniuria verbis_," said Holmes flatly. "Such matters are beyond the Doctor's control. He is entirely in the hands of his publishers and the illiterate editors they employ. You must forgive my cousin, Watson, for he is something of a pedant when it comes to the ways of the literary world."

"Well, it is a great pity," continued Peregrine Holmes, "because for me it greatly spoilt what was for me a most intriguing business. I have some acquaintance with historical curiosities, you understand, and so the details were naturally of a deeply fascinating nature to myself. If you still retain those relics, Sherlock, I would be greatly obliged if you would permit me to inspect them. I did mean to ask you some time ago, but then you died and the matter quite slipped my mind."

I do not know of any other context where such a statement could have been made in such a blunt manner and not been possessed of an aspect of the absurd. Normal conversations between family members do not generally range into discussions concerning the demise of one or other the party and the fact that it was here, and treated with a noble sense of practicality too, was greatly disarming.

"Perhaps another time," said Holmes, registering my reaction with a favoured smile. "First, I think we must hear of this business which has brought you untimely to my door. But, Watson, you have become quite pale, my dear fellow. Would you care for a brandy?"

"No, thank you," I mumbled. "Cousin, you say?"

"Quite so, and a very troubled one at that. Now, Perry, please continue with your most interesting narrative. Watson, if you would be so kind as to take notes."

It was all I could to marshal my thoughts in the direction of pen and paper. It truly was the most remarkable sight I could ever hope to witness. The similarities between the two were considerable, except that I was struck by the most inordinate impression of viewing a blurred mirror image. In age and general appearance, they were largely the same, with that severe patrician countenance and thin, hawk-like nose that so distinguishes Holmes's profile.

In the case of Peregrine Holmes, however, there was a little more weight about the jowl, whilst the eyes, though singularly and deeply grey in colour, had lesser of that penetration of gaze which my friend often employs to marked effect. His hair, equal in shade and luxuriance, was worn with a careless elegance, which went someway to masking the receding hairline. The nervous hands that played with the travelling cap upon his lap too betrayed him, not only in the dirtiness of their nails, but also in that they were broader and squarer at the tips, unlike those long white fingers of my friend that were oft to be found drawing music from his violin.

All this I was able to observe given a little time. I could, however, quite comprehend Mrs Hudson's reaction of earlier. A fleeing glance would disquieten any soul enough to believe they were seeing double, so superficially marked was the resemblance, and I had to wonder whether the familial similarities ran deeper than features alone.

"I should explain, Dr Watson, that I am in my own small way a historian and antiquarian of some standing in certain learned circles," began Peregrine Holmes. "I am something of an authority on the customs and social structures of the pre-Roman world. My last monograph on _'The Highways and Byways of the Ancient Britons and the Implications for Early Trade Routes'_ was well enough received and garnered considerable academic acclaim. Perhaps you have read it?"

"I'm afraid not," I confessed.

He looked a little crestfallen. "Well, it had a rather limited circulation, so that is to be expected. The upshot of this publication was that I received an invitation from Professor Horace Moncrieff, fellow of archaeology at Oxford University, to join him in the excavation of a round barrow at Addleton, some six miles to the west of Avebury in Wiltshire. I was naturally delighted and accepted without delay."

"Why you?" asked Holmes. "Archaeology is not your usual field of interest."

"There was an ancient route in association with the barrow."

"Ah, quite so. Thus you went down to Addleton and so began your problems."

"Almost immediately that we arrived in fact," said his cousin gloomily. "The local people were hostile, despite the fact that we had been given the blessing of the landowner, Mr Enoch Pearce. No sooner did the excavation begin than monstrous omens and warnings started to appear."

Holmes opened his eyes and fixed his cousin with a steely gaze. "Describe the nature of these omens."

"There was some talk initially of a ghost. Apparently people had sighted a man with a long, shaggy beard and a spear in furs on pony in the vicinity of the barrow."

Holmes snorted. "How very amusing."

"It was, until these warnings took on a more serious aspect. Let me show you."

From the carpet bag he had deposited by the side of his chair, he produced several effigies, crudely fashioned from straw in the shape of human beings. Grotesque they were indeed, for in each case the head was missing and the traces of a rust-coloured staining indicated that these figures had been daubed in blood.

Holmes turned them over in his hands before passing them to me. "Did the Professor read anything into these 'warnings'?" he asked.

"He dismissed them, as did we all, as being silly, childish pranks, designed to scare us off."

"Why? And why the hostility of the local people?"

Peregrine Holmes shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "There is some superstition attached to these barrows. The locals believe that our excavations will unleash evil forces. Pure nonsense of course – this is a nothing more than burial mound, believed to be of a king or some such important personage. Oh, I have heard many legends connected with the Addleton barrow, and depending on whom one talks to, the people buried within are either witches or the knights of King Arthur, both of which are equally absurd notion as I'm sure you'll agree."

Holmes shook his head. "It is not a question of what we may think, Perry, but of what the people of Addleton _believe_. If they sincerely deem that your excavations are about to unleash the forces of chaos onto their sleepy hamlet, then they would have an excellent reason for wanting your meddling brought to an end. But, pray, do continue," said he. "And tell us to what degree these warnings have escalated to have driven you from the charming Wiltshire countryside to London so early in the morning."

"Escalated as you say, cousin," said Peregrine Holmes, wringing his hands in a most disconsolate fashion. "Two days ago, we returned to the barrow in the morning to find the severed head of a goat in the centre of our diggings."

"Remarkable!" said I. "Someone has gone to great deal of trouble to scare you and your fellow barrow-diggers away."

"I'm not sure that scare is the correct word, Doctor. Terrify would be more accurate. You are aware of ancient man's veneration of the Cult of the Head?"

Holmes's expression was verging on exasperation at the circuitous route his cousin was taking in the telling of his tale, and it fell to me to suggest that an explanation might be in order.

"It was believed that the head, in particular the human head, had magical powers. Several of those structures now identified as temples had niches where the heads of enemies or sacrificial victims were displayed."

"My dear Perry," interjected Holmes. "As interesting as this history lesson undoubtedly is, it tells us little of the problem that has occasioned your visit. Do get to the point."

"Well, some members of the expedition took the goat's head to be a warning of what might happen to us, that our heads might be intended for some pagan ritual."

"That was undeniably the purpose of the exercise."

"I'll not deny the discovery did shake me somewhat. To find it there, mounted on a bank of earth, with no indication of where it came from or how it arrived, was most ghastly."

"Where it came from was most likely a dead goat," observed Holmes dryly. "As to its appearance, did no one think to check for footprints? Unless the goat was obliging enough to deposit its own head there and then have the rest of the body go on its merry way, we must assume a human agent."

"Naturally we did. Knowing something of your methods of old, I instructed the others to conduct a search. But the ground was hard and dry and there was little to be found. It hardened the impression in several of our fellow diggers' minds that sinister forces were at work, even those of Satan himself."

Holmes smiled. "I take it then that this particular ruse had the desired effect."

"Indeed. Five left that day, but the Professor was determined not to be dissuaded. We pressed on, though our forces had been depleted by half."

"At this point, may I ask if you had found anything?" I inquired.

Peregrine Holmes gave a small shake of his head. "No, Doctor. In fact, the day before, the Professor had suggested switching our site of investigation to the western side of the barrow, that facing Addleton House. As it proved, it was the correct decision, for almost immediately we began turning up pieces of pottery, which we were using to date the barrow. Then came this morning's discovery."

"Ah, another warning?" said Holmes.

"Not unless you would describe the dead body of Professor Moncrieff as an ill omen."

Holmes sat bolt upright in his chair, his eyes at once bright and gleaming with interest.

"Murdered?"

"Most cruelly," said Peregrine Holmes with a shiver. "I found him bound and garrotted, Sherlock, in the manner of execution practiced by ancient tribes. It was a terrible thing to see. I took to my heels and came straight down to London to put the whole business before you."

"I appreciate the gesture, cousin, but surely this is a matter for the local police?"

"Indeed it is," said he heavily. "I would have remained, except that I expect to be arrested for Professor Moncrieff's murder."

Holmes let out an impromptu laugh of barely suppressed exultation. "Dear me, Perry, this is a most vexed situation. Do they have good reason to suspect you?"

"I had words with the Professor last night," said he. "Angry words that the other members of the expedition could not have failed to hear and which in the cold light of day I bitterly regret with all my soul."

"What was the reason for this argument?"

From Peregrine Holmes's reaction, I imagined the cause to have its roots in the most desperate of situations. He struggled to speak, shook his head as though trying to force the words free, clasped his forehead and finally sank back into his chair, in the manner of a broken and devastated man.

"Fool that I was!" he declared. "And such rash words to a friend over such a matter!"

"Perry, spare us the melodrama," Holmes said calmly. "Tell us the facts."

He sighed with such drama that I thought I was about to hear something drawn from the darkest regions of his soul.

"It was over the dating of pottery shard," said he, burying his face in his hands. "The Professor would have its dating to the early Bronze Age, whereas I believed most fervently that it was properly placed in the millennium before."

Holmes offered me a fleeing smile. "Grievous indeed," said he, with no small trace of amusement in his tone. "Is the world of archaeology so fraught that colleagues are liable to commit deadly murder over such a trifle?"

"A trifle?" spluttered his cousin. "It would have meant a reworking of the history books, Sherlock. Surely you see how pivotal a point this is?"

"Pivotal, yes, but worth a man's life? No, Perry, this alone will not do. I perceive you have something else to tell us."

Peregrine Holmes's countenance fell. "I will never know how you are aware of these things, but, yes, you are quite correct. In order to win favour with the local people, the Professor and I have been in the habit of giving lectures in the church hall, to engage interest in our activities."

"Most commendable. Have they been well attended?"

"Fairly. The problem is that the lecture I gave might serve to implicate me."

"What was it?"

"_The Death Cult of the Ancient Britons_."

"Ah, well, in that case you were wise in bringing this matter to me," said Holmes gravely.

His cousin let out a great moan. "Oh, the shame! What have I done to our good name? What will the rest of the family say?"

Holmes rose and positioned himself before the fire. "I would say that that is the least of your worries. As to the family, Miles will no doubt gain standing amongst his equally vacuous friends, Endymion will use it as the basis for one of his interminable sermons, and the rest of us will rally and endeavour to extricate you from this mess in which you have squarely landed yourself. Watson, are you dreadfully busy today?"

"No, not at all."

"Then if you would oblige us with the pleasure of your company into the wilds of Wiltshire, I'm sure the gesture would be greatly appreciated by all concerned."

"I'd be delighted."

"Good. Then we should leave as soon as possible. Let us strike while the iron is hot, gentlemen, lest some flat-footed village bobby blunder all over the evidence. To Wiltshire, then, and the fair, if ill-omened, village of Addleton."

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Two: The Journey to Addleton**_

_**Reviews welcome and greatly appreciated!**_


	2. Chapter Two

_**The Addleton Tragedy and the Mystery of the Ancient British Barrow**_

**Chapter Two: The Journey to Addleton **

In very little time, or so it seemed, we were steaming past the rows of grey London tenements and out in the countryside beyond. For a fellow with a possible charge of murder hanging over his head, Peregrine Holmes seemed more than amiable to the notion of whiling away the journey in slumber and, before we had left the smoky city behind, he had already tucked his chin upon his chest and begun to snore.

I was burning with curiosity, but it seemed churlish to question Holmes about his cousin while we three shared the same compartment. Instead, I buried myself and my myriad of questions in my copy of _The Times_ and before long I too found the irresistible lure of sleep tugging at my eyelids.

When I awoke, it was to find that the shabby houses had been replaced by rolling countryside, where sheep grazed as distant white dots on the verdant fields and cows gambolled away from trackside fences as our train rumbled by. Holmes was staring vacantly out of the window, lost in thought with a cigarette drooping from his fingers, while in the corner his cousin was still in the throes of a deep sleep. He turned his head slightly to acknowledge my wakefulness as I sat up and stretched the ache from my back.

"Well, awake at last," said he. "You are most scintillating company this afternoon, Watson."

"If you recall," I answered, "I had an early start on account of pursuing your inquiries."

"Ah, yes. And what did you learn?"

"The butler confirmed that Mrs Tallis did send her maid to fetch her gloves from the Duchess's house."

I was hoping for some expression of approval at my news, yet Holmes seemed decidedly unimpressed.

"What else?" said he.

"That's it. That's what you asked me to discover."

He sighed. "No, no, Watson, it will not do. You say the butler confirmed the maid's story. But who is there to confirm the butler's story? The two could be in league together. You should have questioned the other members of the staff. Really, my dear fellow, you have wasted what should have been a most profitable morning."

I will admit my pride was somewhat hurt by the terseness of his tone and this harsh assessment of what I considered to be a supreme effort on my part, and I told him so.

"You would prefer that I praise what are considerable deficiencies in your statement?" said he. "That I flatter you and allow you to repeat your error time and time again?"

"If there is a _next_ time," I retorted. "Since my results never seem to please you, I suggest you pursue your own inquiries in future and leave me to get my rest in the mornings."

He regarded me with a kindly gleam in his eyes. "I have offended you, Watson, and that was never my intention. In fact I am extremely indebted to you for accompanying me on this business. It promises to be challenging."

"You have formed some theory then?"

"Several. Have you?"

I gave a helpless shrug. "Only that the people of Addleton in some way conspired to kill the Professor and blame it on your relation."

"Oh, you believe Perry's story?"

"He's your cousin. I assumed –"

"Never assume," said he sharply. "Although in Perry's case, there is some justification. To imagine him possible of such a crime would be to credit him with more passion and audacity than is his due. No, I could no more believe he had committed murder than you, my dear fellow."

Whether that was intended as some oblique compliment, I was not immediately sure, nor was I entirely comfortable with being mentioned in the same breath as someone Holmes described as passionless and weak-willed. I wondered if he was trying to needle me to gain a response; if so, he was succeeding, for I was fast become riled by his disparaging manner.

"Are you sure you're not allowing yourself to be blinded by familial allegiance?" said I. "I have often observed that the most ordinary of people are capable of infinite surprise."

"That I will not deny. You, for instance, are a constant source of amazement. This inordinate capacity you possess for taking offence where none is meant is quite perplexing to me. Indeed, it makes conversations most fraught when you are in such a mood. I never know what to say for the best."

I chuckled, glad for once of being guilty of misreading the situation. "You could try phrasing your statements better."

"True. I would be loath to place anyone in the same category as Perry, least of all you. He's…"

He hesitated as he glanced over at his sleeping cousin and a thin smile creased the corners of his mouth.

"Well, why don't you tell me?" said he. "It is always instructive to see one's relatives from the detached viewpoint of other."

"But, Holmes, he might wake up," I objected. "He might hear us."

"I doubt that. Perry has always been a notoriously poor traveller and has thus developed a peculiar tendency for falling asleep as soon as a journey begins. He will awake precisely one minute before we reach our destination and not a moment before."

"Surely you jest?"

"Not at all. Now, Watson, your assessment, if you please."

"Holmes, this is grossly unfair. For a start, he is your cousin, and that for me is the most astounding thing of all."

"Why so? If a man's parent has siblings, then it is entirely likely that he will have cousins. Perry is mine. What is so incredible about that?"

"The fact you have never mentioned him, perhaps."

"Why ever _should_ I mention the fellow? He was an irrelevance to our peaceful existence until now. If you recall, I never told you of my brother either until the need became pressing. So, please, proceed, and rest assured that you may be as blunt as you like for it will not offend me in the slightest."

This prospect for some reason made me more nervous than I would have cared to admit. It is one thing to mock one's own family, but quite another to hear the frank opinion of an outsider. Despite Holmes's words, I determined to tread very carefully indeed.

"Well, then, I should say he is your first cousin," I began uncertainly, "on account of the extraordinary resemblance between you."

"With that statement, you either mean to flatter or provoke," Holmes interjected. "Do not waste your time, for I am well aware that neither Perry nor myself were blessed with what passes for a noble countenance in our family. Pray, continue."

I could think of any number of our female clients who would readily take issue with this opinion of his shortcomings, but decided not to argue with him on the subject.

"He has two brothers: Endymion, who is a member of the clergy, and Miles, the eldest –"

"From what did you infer that he is the eldest?"

"Because you mentioned him first and gave the impression that he was something of an idler. From my experience, it is only the eldest sons who are fortunate enough to have the security of family wealth to indulge in such a lifestyle."

Holmes's countenance lit with delight. "My dear Watson, you have a quite remarkable faculty for aural deduction. You have taken the slightest of verbal inferences and reasoned a whole series of relationships which are as accurate as they are perspicacious."

I was greatly bolstered by this praise and felt confident enough to continue with my speculations to a greater degree than I might have done ordinarily.

"As regards his character, he is clearly a bachelor, for he wears no wedding ring and the skin is not lighter on his ring finger as one would expect if he was a widower and had removed his ring. He lives alone, probably in a university town, where he spends a great deal of time in study, which accounts for his rather unworldly manner and tendency for pedantry."

"Ah, now there you have slipped into the realms of fantasy," said Holmes, lowering the window to eject his spent cigarette. The rushing wind caught it and dashed it against the pane in a flurry of orange and grey ash. "He is a bachelor, but, Watson, look at that lamentable tie!"

The object in question was bright purple spotted silk of the best quality, tied in the most untidy manner.

"No man would ever choose such a tie for himself. Therefore, he has at least one woman in his life and it is she who has made him this gift. He clearly holds her in great regard, because instead of burying it at the back of his closet as one would expect, he has continued to wear it, presumably to please her. This is a habit of long-standing with him, since he wears it even when out of her presence. So we may deduce that he does live with a woman, whom he has known for a very long time, but who is not his wife."

"A sister?"

"Quite so. Her name is Evadne, the fourth and final member of the quartet. Now, why do you think he lives in town?"

"The back of his neck is sunburnt and the backs of his hands are quite pink. I took that to mean that he was unused to country life."

"Did you?" mused Holmes. "Rather I should say it points to a careless state of mind in a man who has forgotten to wear a hat whilst at his barrow-digging. From that we may deduce that he is a man who does not take the sun easily and takes precautions to avoid unnecessarily exposure. The observation was an excellent one, although you have failed to consider other matters of relevance. Take his clothes, for instance. Worn and sturdy country tweeds are not to found on the town-dweller, not even those living in university towns."

"But he has been in the country of late, so that would account for the state of them."

"The knees certainly tell of time spent digging. But the cuffs, Watson, do you see how frayed they are? And the obvious repair to the pocket. That can only be the product of many years of wear. Clearly, then he lives in the country. As for time spent in study, I should say that it is not as great as he would like."

"Oh, and how would I know that?"

"You said yourself about eldest sons gaining the lion's share of the family's wealth. One brother has been forced to shift for himself; why not this one too? He spoke of acclaim in learned circles for his work, but you note that he is not a member of that world. Had he been in receipt of a stipend from a university, his path would have crossed with that of Professor Moncrieff long before now and thus negated the need for a written invitation. No, we say some with some certainty that Peregrine is employed elsewhere."

"As you know, you might enlighten me, for I cannot fathom the nature of his occupation."

Holmes idly brushed a little ash from his grey travelling cloak. "It has no bearing on his capacity for having committed the crime of which he is accused. Needless to say, it is position of great responsibility for which he is most ill suited."

I stared at him hard, wondering what had brought our conversation to such an abrupt end.

"In other words, you won't tell me?" I inquired.

He kept his gaze carefully averted. "How important is it to you that you know?"

"Not important at all, Holmes. Although I would say it points to a lamentable lack of faith on your part in my powers of discretion."

"No, no, it's nothing like that at all," said he, quickly glancing in my direction. "Very well, since you insist, Perry is the manager of an estate of some one hundred acres."

I fought and failed to suppress a chuckle. I doubted there was a more unlikely person in the whole of the country to fill such a role than the softly-snoring fellow opposite.

"Whoever would employ him in such a role, or would tolerate him going off to pursue his own interests in this manner? Why, they must either be the most lackadaisical landowners in England or…"

I hesitated as my train of thought came to its logical and disturbing conclusion.

"Or family," I finished. "Good grief, that's it, isn't it?"

He nodded. "The estate belongs to our Aunt Augusta."

"Holmes, you are incorrigible," said I, feeling the hot glow of irritation burning at my insides. "After all these years of our association, you have the temerity first to produce a cousin from out of nowhere and now I hear tales of aunts and landed estates."

"Ah, 'association', is it now? Interesting use of language, Watson."

"Well, it could hardly be called a friendship when you keep from me such intimate details of your life. Given the events of recent years, I am fast coming to the conclusion that you do not trust me at all."

"I believe I have always been frank with you," said he.

"You told me your ancestors were country squires."

"So they were. Now they are poor country squires."

"With a hundred acres?"

Holmes waved an airy hand. "It is mostly scrub and heath. Really, it is a trifle, Watson. I do not see why you should get so warm about this."

"Yes, you do. That is why you were reluctant to tell me just now."

"That is because I consider them an irrelevance," he countered. "Besides, you did not volunteer information about your family until I deduced it."

"That is not the same thing. You only ever tell me what you think I need to know. Had this cousin of yours not appeared, I would be ignorant still of your relatives."

"Perhaps I do not find them as interesting a subject as you do," said he sardonically. "I have always been of the opinion that a man's choice of friends is far more insightful of his character than his lineage."

"I don't think you know the meaning of that word," I retorted. "Friends do not lie to each other."

"I believe I have never knowingly lied to you, Watson, except in your best interests."

That he should dare to claim such a thing was as insulting as it was inflammatory. The arrogance of the man fairly made my blood boil.

"Are you referring to the three years when you were content for me to believe you were dead so that I might perform all the better as your official eulogist and convince the world of your demise?" said I hotly. "I cannot help feeling that you used me then, Holmes, as you continue to use me now without consideration or respect. I am good enough to write about your deeds, but not to be permitted to know you or any intimate detail of your life. If that is so, then one or other of us has been cruelly deceived all these years."

The look he returned could not have been any more imbued with the deep state of shock I now saw on his face than if I had slapped him across the cheek. It gives me no pleasure causing pain to others, but my temper was roused and my own sense of worth deeply offended. I would have preferred to continue the conversation, but at that precise moment Peregrine Holmes gave a loud snort and started to show signs of wakefulness.

"We shall talk of this later," said Holmes, lowering his voice.

"Gladly," I hissed in return, "and I for one shall be exceedingly interested to hear what arguments you can mount in your defence."

With one last uncertain look, he dragged his gaze away from my face and back to the green blur of passing trees outside the compartment window.

"My deepest apologies," said Peregrine Holmes brightly. "Did I drop off again?"

He glanced from one to the other of our unsmiling faces and his own countenance fell.

"Oh dear, have I missed something?" said he.

"Nothing terribly important," said I. "Depending on your perspective."

The carriage shuddered slightly as the engine began to slow. A little surprised, I rose and pulled down the window. Some way ahead, I saw a station sign bearing the name of our destination. Exactly as Holmes had said, his cousin's timely return to consciousness had coincided with our arrival at the quiet village of Addleton.

* * *

_**Boys, boys – no arguments please. This business is already complicated enough without the added tension. I foresee trouble ahead…**_

_**Continued in Chapter Three: The Late Professor Moncrieff**_

_**Reviews welcome and greatly appreciated!**_


	3. Chapter Three

_**The Addleton Tragedy and the Mystery of the Ancient British Barrow**_

**Chapter Three: The Late Professor Moncrieff **

The station at which we alighted was one of the smaller ones, consisting of little more than a platform, a fence and a ticket booth. Weeds had sprung up between cracks in the flagstones and the sign was in sore need of a new coat of paint. Addleton, it seemed, saw few visitors by rail.

That our choice of destination was something out of the ordinary was plainly visible on the porter's face, whose expression eloquently expressed his surprise at seeing not one but three people exiting at the remote country stop. He was evidently impressed too at seeing the station master roused from his sleep by the presence of a uniformed police official, who, with notebook in hand, was in the midst of questioning the man.

Our sudden appearance could not have been more marked if we had just descended from the heavens rather than the threadbare carriage of the now departing train. The policeman, a stocky, round faced man of about five-and-forty, who was several meals away from requiring a new uniform, gazed upon us with curious, almost bovine interest, while his older, bewhiskered companion sucked thoughtfully at his pipe with the attitude of a man struggling to contain his indifference.

"This _is_ Addleton?" I asked after the silence persisted for longer than was comfortable for any of us.

"That it be, sir," said the policeman, making a visible effort to regain his wits. "I'm Sergeant Bruce and this is here is Mr Goodfellow. But perhaps you could help me, sir. I've just been inquiring as to the whereabouts of Mr Peregrine Holmes and now I see two of him stood before me as plain as day. Tell me, sirs, which o'you two gentlemen would be answering to that name?"

I realised the reason for their pause was that same closeness of resemblance that had so struck me earlier in the day. A grim frown of annoyance came to Holmes's face at the impertinence of the man in confusing him with his relation.

"I am that unhappy gentleman," said Peregrine Holmes glumly. "This is my cousin, Mr Sherlock Holmes, and his friend, Dr John Watson."

"Well, I'm right glad to see you, sir. We thought you'd been carried off by unspeakables in the middle of the night. Might I ask where you've been today, Mr Holmes?"

"To enlist the help of my cousin, naturally, in view of the horrible death of Professor Moncrieff."

"Oh, you know about that, do you, sir? Mind telling me how?"

Peregrine Holmes worried at his hands and spoke with difficulty. "Because I found him this morning. If you're going to arrest me, Sergeant, I feel I must tell you that I had nothing to do with the Professor's death and I protest my innocence most emphatically!"

"Perry," Holmes drawled. "Why don't you provide the rope to hang yourself too and save the good people of Addleton the trouble and expense?"

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I thought it best to state my position. I have nothing to hide."

Sergeant Bruce meanwhile had been considering his previous statement.

"So if I understand you, Mr Holmes, you found the body, fled the scene and went to get your cousin. Forgive me for asking, sir, but why would you do that, if as you say you are innocent?"

"Because I thought I would be a suspect. My cousin dabbles in this sort of thing and I trusted that he would be able to help me."

" 'Dabbles'?" echoed Holmes indignantly, his eyebrows arching high on his forehead.

The choice of word had surprised me too, and despite my own irritation at Holmes, I found myself falling into my accustomed role of leaping to his defence.

"Mr Sherlock Holmes is a consulting detective from London," said I. "You may have heard of him?"

Sergeant and station master exchanged dubious glances.

"We don't have much to do with London round about here," said the police sergeant. "Although your name does sound familiar, sir." The light of realisation came to his face and he snapped his fingers. "You aren't _the_ Mr Sherlock Holmes, are you, sir?"

"Are there others?" said Holmes wearily.

" 'Pon my word, I do know you, Mr Holmes! You solve all those clever mysteries. By heck, sir, it's a pleasure to shake your hand, that is it."

Whether the gesture was felt as keenly as Holmes, I could not tell, for his face had assumed that mask of inscrutability that hid all emotion to the greatest effect. The sergeant seemed overjoyed, however, for delight beamed from his countenance and his large eyes sparkled with honest pleasure.

"Well, I never. Fancy me shaking the hand of someone famous. We don't get too many folk like that around here, do we, Joseph?"

The station master shook his head sagely, although his manner spoke of his being less than impressed.

"According to old man Bartle, the last person o'note we had in Addleton was Oliver Cromwell, and he only on account of his horse throwing a shoe at the market cross. Stayed at the Dog and Duck in the village he did. If you ask Mrs Lacey, the landlady of yon inn, she'll show you where he stabled his horse. His teeth marks are still on the bar."

"A pleasure we must postpone for the time being," said Holmes. "As my cousin has so inelegantly explained, he has asked me, for my sins, to look into this regrettable business, if that is amendable to your good self, Sergeant."

"It'd be an honour, Mr Holmes," said he. "This is the first murder Addleton's had in many a year. Most I've ever had to deal with is a bit o'thievery and that young fellow who kept bothering old Mrs Eccles's sheep a couple o'years back. You remember him, don't you, Joseph? Ended up at the assizes over at Barbury Heath, he did."

A non-committal nod was all he could elicit from the dour-eyed station master.

"We're glad of the help, o'course, but I dare say you'll not find much here to interest you, sir," the sergeant went on, his West Country accent becoming broader with every sentence. "Seems as plain as a pikestaff to me. I've got those other three fellows who were digging over at yon barrow under lock and key, and since you tell me your cousin didn't do it, Mr Holmes, then it has to be one o'them. O'course, I'll have to clear it with Inspector Rose afore I can release anyone, including Mr Peregrine Holmes here."

"Your village has its own police inspector?" I queried.

"Bless you, no, sir. Addleton's got the one lock-up and that burned down last wintertide. My beat covers the villages between here and Cockford, on account o' there not being much crime around these parts, you see. Inspector Rose'll be coming over from Barbury way, though he knows the village well enough. Frequent visitor at the Dog and Duck, he is. I dare say he'll be rocked back on his heels when he gets the news we've had a murder here."

I found that the sergeant's ebullient and effusive manner was starting to pall. That a man had died in such a horrendous manner seemed have escaped his notice and was slight compared to the future potential for relating the sensational details of this tragedy to whomsoever would listen. Personally, I found the whole business distasteful, with its elements of the macabre and the occult, and it filled me with a modicum of dread to think what awaited us in the village.

"In the meantime, Sergeant," said Holmes, "perhaps we could pursue our own investigation in the cause of this tragedy? Would it be possible to view the body?"

"I don't see why not, do you, Joseph?"

I was not sure why it needed the station master's approval, but he gave it all the same, in his usual silent manner.

"Lucky for you I brought the pony and trap with me," said Sergeant Bruce. "It's a fair walk into the village otherwise on a close day like this. You coming with us, Joseph?"

Apparently he was, which made me wonder about the state of the train service from this quiet stop, that the station master could abandon his post so early in the afternoon.

"What time is the train back to London?" I asked.

The look that Holmes gave me was one which is forever etched in my memory. I do not care to recall the fleeting parade of emotions that passed swiftly across his pale countenance, save for the distinct impression I gained that my words had somehow struck him to the very core. I could not fathom it, except to believe in light of our disagreement and my then lamentable ignorance that he had already planned some use for my meagre talents in pursuit of this business so that my departure would be an inconvenience to him.

"Well," said Mr Goodfellow, finally proving to all and sundry that he was capable of speech; "this being September and tomorrow being a Friday, train'll be coming through at half past eight, sir."

"Tomorrow evening, good."

"No, sir. Tomorrow morning. Not one again till day after that."

My soul sank at the prospect of lingering in Addleton any longer than was absolutely necessary. "Why so infrequent?"

"Because it's market day over Barbury way," said Mr Goodfellow, as though that explained the situation. "That'll be as far as folk'll be wanting to go. Can't sell no sheep up in London town, can they now? Too far for 'em to walk."

"Yes, I suppose it is," I murmured, feeling thorough abashed for asking what to the locals seemed a thoroughly absurd question.

"Well, if you'll be good enough to follow me, we'll go into the village and you can see the Professor, or what's left o'him," said Sergeant Bruce, beckoning as he started through the gate. "We'll have to see about getting you a bed for the night too at the Dog and Duck, as you'll be staying a while."

"What an irksome place this is," said Holmes with a sigh. "Had that train been leaving tonight, I might seriously have considered joining you, Watson."

Barely had I opened my mouth to defend my motives for my questioning of the station master when I found my arms grasped by his cousin, who had turned to me with beseeching eyes.

"Please, Dr Watson, you must stay!" said he desperately. "I am need of every ally I can muster in this terrible affair. That policeman has already decided on our culpability, and I do not deceive myself into thinking that I entirely free of suspicion even with Sherlock's assistance. Out of the goodness of your heart, do not abandon me, sir!"

"Perry, for pity's sake, contain yourself," said Holmes. "It is not your place to prevent Watson leaving. Once he has made up his mind, you will find that his resolve is quite unshakeable."

"Such a thought never entered my mind," I reassured him. "I asked merely because I am concerned at our having to remain here in a state of relative isolation with a savage murderer on the prowl."

"Did you bring your pistol with you?"

"You know I am never without it when we are on a case."

"Then we should be comparatively safe," said Holmes. "As for our surroundings, well, Watson, you know my opinion of these remote hamlets."

"Yes, your sentiments left me quite astounded when I read them," said his cousin, "considering that our –"

Holmes cut him short before he could continue with that thought. "Shall we go? The sooner this business is at an end, the sooner we may put Watson's fears to rest and return to the comparative safety of our comfortable London lodgings."

With his cousin suitably silenced, he strode away, leaving us to follow in his wake. Both sergeant and station master were settled up front and no sooner were we inside than the pony was whipped up and we set off at a brisk trot.

We rattled along the quiet track between hedgerows over which could be glimpsed vast fields, pockmarked by the hand of ancient man. Sheep picked at the yellowing grass and added their voices to the chorus of birdsong and the chirruping of crickets. In the distance, lonely cottages brooded in the undulating landscape and sent up lazy fingers of smoke into the cloudless sky.

A solitary standing blue stone stood in the midst of lumps and the remains of earthworks. At my inquiry as to its purpose, Peregrine Holmes started on the subject closest to his heart and our journey continued to a lengthy explanation about prehistoric culture. Holmes sat opposite, his eyes closed, and I could not tell whether he was listening to our conversation or not. Certainly his brow was deeply furrowed, suggesting that he was lost in thought, and I had hopes he was giving serious consideration to our earlier difference of opinion. Knowing him, however, I was equally sure that his thoughts turned on the business at hand.

By the time we came to the outskirts of the village, I had heard enough about the ways of death and prehistoric burial rituals to last me a lifetime. I diverted our companion's attention my making some remark about the village, which lay before us now, quietly dreaming in the dusty afternoon haze.

At first sight, Addleton was uninspiring. We were miles from anywhere, an oasis of sand-coloured stone houses in a vast empty landscape that stretched as far as the eye could see. The place had been prosperous once for a fine stone bridge struggled to span the bloated river. The recent past spoke of hard times in the series of neglected cottages that lined the main road and the bedraggled appearance of several urchins I saw playing in the water.

As our trap clattered over the cobbled bridge, I saw a little way upstream an old church clinging to the bank of the river, whose waters were washing over the graveyard wall. The tops of several forlorn headstones appeared every now and then as the river ebbed and flowed, while a group of contented ducks were quietly preening on the church steps.

"What happened here?" I asked.

"There's been rain up in the hills and the river gets swollen like that this time every year," explained Sergeant Bruce.

"The church is abandoned, I presume."

"Bless you, no, sir. Why, that river's been flooding for as long as anyone can remember and that old church is still standing. The people round here have got used to it."

"But you don't bury anyone in the churchyard, do you? Those that were there I trust have been exhumed?"

"A bit o'water wouldn't be bothering them, sir," said the sergeant with a chuckle. "Old man Archer we buried out there last spring was a sea-dog in his youth and I dare say he'd like to be getting his feet wet again."

"I wasn't thinking about the dead," I said, glancing over the other side of bridge to where several men were pulling a fish-laden net from the water.

I noticed Holmes had opened his eyes and was making silent inquiries with his brows as to the reason for my interest.

"Seepage," I said in hushed tones, and then in a louder voice asked: "Has an inspector of public health seen this?"

"That he has, sir. He said we should stop burying people in the crypt after old mother Hackett came floating out of her coffin at Christmas a few years back. Gave the vicar a terrible turn, and she dead eighteen month a'more. He thought the last trump had been sounded!"

Peregrine Holmes placed a hand to his mouth and let out a strangled gasp. "I had stewed fish only yesterday!" he exclaimed. "Am I to die of some terrible disease, Doctor?"

"Oh, you don't want to be worrying about that, sirs," the sergeant went on merrily. "The people round here have been taking water and fish out o'that river for many a long year. Ain't never done them no harm. Ain't that right, Joseph?"

As a recommendation for the brand, Mr Goodfellow's overall condition was not encouraging. I had already noticed his yellow pallor and bloodshot eyes, and that coupled with an unsightly weeping wen on the back of his neck, whether attributable Addleton's freshwater supply or not, was enough to make me want to turn for home that instant.

"While we're here, don't drink water," I advised. "Ale or wine, but no water under any circumstances. And no fish either."

Our arrival at the Dog and Duck confirmed what I was already suspecting about the likely state of our accommodation. A former coaching inn, honey-coloured stone was topped by a decaying timber framework, from which sections of wattle and daub had fallen to reveal the bare laths beneath. Our welcome by the portly Mrs Lacey was warm enough, and the interior had that earthy mix of stale beer, tobacco and wet dogs that seems to be the staple smell of taverns the length and breadth of the country.

I had expected to be shown up to our rooms, but Sergeant Bruce was keen to press on. Leaving our bags, we followed him behind the bar into a kitchen with a large, blackened fireplace. A cooking pot steamed over a grudging fire, the aroma of stewing mutton overlaying a more pungent, less pleasing odour that reminded me of the time we had located a dead mouse in the sitting room by following its stench.

Sergeant Bruce came to a halt by a room I took to be the pantry and beckoned us over.

"Is there any purpose to this, Sergeant?" asked Holmes, whose tone easily conveyed a growing sense of vexation with which I had much sympathy.

"You did want to see the Professor?" said he.

An appalling notion made me hasten to his side, and to my great horror, I saw the corpse of Professor Moncrieff lying on the tiled floor within. The dreadful smell of decay hit me full in the face, and it was all I could to keep myself from retching.

"Good grief, man!" said I, clamping my handkerchief over my nose. "You can't keep a dead body in here where food is stored."

The sergeant looked perplexed. "Well, we didn't rightly know what to do with him, sir. We couldn't leave him where he was, because he was attracting the flies being out in the sun like that. And old Doc Montague didn't want him on account of the smell and his stomach being on the delicate side. So we put him in here. It didn't seem no disrespect to the gentleman."

I was aware that Holmes was hovering at my shoulder, and even he, hardened as he was to all manner of death and misfortune, caught his breath and took a step back.

"This is unacceptable, Sergeant," I insisted. "The body must be removed and this place thoroughly scrubbed. There is a considerable risk of disease from such a corpse."

"But he was murdered, sir. He didn't die of no disease."

"Even so, it is a risk I would not like to take."

"Well, I s'pose you're right," said Sergeant Bruce, "though I don't know where we're to put him. The cart'll be here from Barbury within the hour to collect him, so the police surgeon can have a look at him. I daren't put him outside again."

"Before the Professor is disturbed yet again," said Holmes, "would it be in order if we inspected the body? Watson, would you mind?"

"No, if only on the grounds of ensuring his swift removal from this place."

"A good enough reason."

Pausing to take a deep breath, he stepped into the rank interior and knelt down beside the body. I joined him and together we surveyed the mortal remains of Professor Horace Moncrieff.

I have seen a good many bodies in my time, in various states and displaying a variety of injuries. There was something about this one, however, that caused a deep sense of revolution in the depths of my soul. The Professor had been a giant of a man, taller than Holmes, with fierce red hair and unkempt whiskers that partially concealed his weather-beaten cheeks. His hands were still bound before him and around his neck thin brown twine had bitten deep into the swollen flesh. Worst of all were the eyes, or lack of them, leaving two empty sockets where once they had been.

"What happened to his eyes?" Holmes asked.

"The crows got to him before we did, sir," said the sergeant. "They always go for the eyes first."

"Quite so. These post mortem injuries you will have already observed, Watson, from the near absence of blood and bruising."

"On the neck too," said I, probing the marked skin. "This was done after death." My attention turned instead to the matted hair on the top of the skull. "It seems to me, Holmes, that it was the blow to the head that killed him rather than strangulation. These ropes were put on afterwards to give a more gruesome aspect to the Professor's death."

"Look at this, Watson, baler's twine around his wrists. A common enough thing to find on any farm across the country. Tell me, Sergeant, are the bales still in the fields?"

"As far as I know," said he. "Jem's cart broke a spoke and we're waiting on the wheelwright to mend it afore the hay can be got under cover."

Holmes stared at the body for a long moment before abruptly getting to his feet. "I think we've seen enough for the time being. I shall be interested in the surgeon's opinion, although I dare say he'll have little to add to my friend's assessment of the cause of death."

I rose to join him. "You think someone struck the Professor down and then tried to make it look like a ritual killing?"

Beneath the shadow of his brow, his grey eyes glimmered as hard as granite.

"In the last instance, most certainly. As to the circumstances, a visit to the scene of his death should satisfy my mind as to particular points of interest."

"We should go while the light is with us," I urged.

The merest suggestion of a smile touched his lips. "Are you not tired? You wouldn't prefer to rest?"

"No, indeed. I should be glad of the walk."

"Then we shall leave without delay."

Despite our fine words, our departure was temporarily halted by the impressive bulk of Mrs Lacey, who nimbly stepped over the Professor's legs and took down a rabbit from one of the meat hooks that hung from the ceiling.

"Now, sirs," said she, looking at us expectantly, "I'm just about to put this rabbit in the pot. Will either of you gentlemen be taking dinner here tonight?"

* * *

_**Can I book anyone a table at the Dog and Duck for rabbit stew? There's plenty to go round!**_

**_Continued in Chapter Four: Wine_****, Witches and the Addleton Barrow**

_**Reviews welcome and greatly appreciated!**_


	4. Chapter Four

_**The Addleton Tragedy and the Mystery of the Ancient British Barrow**_

**Chapter Four: Wine****, Witches and the Addleton Barrow**

I escaped the rank atmosphere of the kitchen for the fresh air of the outdoors. The afternoon sun still shone warmly, turning the honey-coloured stone of the dilapidated cottages and workshops to gold. It was a pretty scene, but given what I had just witnessed, I could not view it now without feeling a strange sense of foreboding.

Even the very weather seemed hostile to our presence, for the humidity was enough to make my collar grab at my skin and moisten the fabric my shirt. A storm was brewing, and not only in the skies above Wiltshire.

Once outside the stifling interior of the bar, I found I was not alone. Peregrine Holmes was seated on a low stone bench beside the tavern's door. His head was sunk low and his hands were clasped loosely in his lap. He presented the very picture of abject dejection, a stark contrast to his cousin, who I had left making inquiries of the sergeant about the local area.

At the sound of my step, he glanced up and a trace of relief cast a little of the despondency from his face.

"Thank heavens," said he. "It's you, Dr Watson."

"Who did you imagine it would be?" I queried.

He gave a mirthless laugh. "That witless policeman come to arrest me. The ghost of Professor Moncrieff come to pour recriminations upon me. That woman with her foul concoctions in the kitchen. My cousin even. Where is he, by the way?"

"Interrogating the sergeant about the possibility of our going to see the barrow this afternoon."

Peregrine Holmes shuddered. "Nothing would induce me to return to that accursed place. I would not go back there for worlds. Even now, I see the Professor's body laid out on that mound like some sacrificial beast. And then, to see him left in that pantry without due care or respect. He was a great man, Doctor, the foremost scholar in his field. That he should have come to such an end fills me with revulsion and sorrow."

I said nothing, for it was evident that he wished to unburden his soul. Long experience has taught me that the need for self-expurgation frequently follows a shock or tragedy, and invariably the kindest way of dealing with it is to lend a sympathetic ear.

"No doubt they would like us all to share a similar fate," he went on. "I expect to feel the horror of this place bearing down upon me at every turn. How shall they find me? With my eyes put out and left for the carrion crows I expect. Dear heavens!"

As interesting as it was for me to observe that the severe emotive control that Holmes exercised was not a trait shared by his family in general, it was also evident that his cousin was greatly affected and troubled in mind and spirit. Unless some way could be found to distract his attention, this relentless tearing at his hair would render him bald by the time this affair reached its conclusion.

"You must place your trust in your cousin," I tried to reassure him. "If any man can shed light upon this mystery, then he can."

Peregrine Holmes cast me a doubtful look. "You have every confidence in him?"

"Absolutely," I said, a little taken aback by his question. "Don't you?"

"This morning, it seemed like a good idea. Now, I am not sure so. Granted, Sherlock is adept at solving petty little mysteries, but this, Doctor, this goes beyond the commonplace."

"Holmes has dealt with many problems of an unusual nature during the course of his career. But surely you must know that?"

"I know only what I have read in your accounts of my cousin's activities. Even those are incomplete. _The Strand _is somewhat hard to obtain in our little corner of the world."

I stared at him, wondering if anyone could be as genuinely guileless as he appeared to be.

"Holmes has never told you anything of his dealings himself?" I swallowed hard to force away the sudden constriction that had taken hold around my throat. "Has he never mentioned any aspect of his life at Baker Street?"

"Not a word, Doctor. To tell you the truth, we had no idea he had perished until we read your most eloquent account. An admirable piece of writing, by the way. Aunt Augusta was most impressed, although she flatly refused to believe a word of it. And as it turned out she was correct. Then again," said he, dismally, "she always is. She told me not to come here and I would not listen. Would that I had!"

"Then you have spent the summer locked away in that study of yours instead of enjoying the sturdy Wiltshire air and becoming embroiled in murder and mayhem," came Holmes's familiar tones over my shoulder.

"Given the choice, I know which I would prefer," declared his cousin. "What news, Sherlock?"

"The sergeant is rounding up your remaining colleagues and we will all travel out to the barrow together. It may prove instructive."

"If you wish, although for my own part I dread to return to that hateful place. I take it you still do not know who was responsible for the Professor's death?"

Holmes's expression remained calm enough, although I noted from the depth of the breath he released that his vexation was mounting.

"We have not been here an hour yet, Perry. I apologise heartily for my lack of success thus far, but you must realise that these things take time. I would be greatly aided in my investigations, however, if vital facts in the case were not concealed from me."

He gave his cousin a pointed look.

"You neglected to mention that the Professor was in the habit of sleeping in the vicinity of the barrow. This fact I have just learned from our insalubrious landlady, Mrs Lacey."

Peregrine Holmes's mouth opened and closed in the manner of a fish taken from water. "Oh, did I not mention that? Well, it is quite right what you said. After the first few incidents, we decided that someone should remain at the excavation site after dark to deter trespassers and looters."

"Evidently it did not."

"No," his cousin confirmed. "Last night was the Professor's watch. It was my turn to rise early and take him morning tea."

"And that is how you came to find him before any of the others." Holmes sighed. "Is there anything else you have neglected to tell me, Perry? No? Well, in that case, go inside and help Mrs Lacey. I believe she said something about a bottle of wine to fortify our flagging spirits."

Holmes busied himself with taking out his cigarette case while his cousin roused himself into action.

"Well, Watson, what do you make of it?" said he lightly, when we were alone. "A little off the beaten track, wouldn't you agree?"

"If you say so, Holmes," I replied tersely. "There again, I don't find murder and mutilation as amusing as you do."

"Intriguing rather than amusing, surely."

He hesitated and, during the long pause that followed, I felt the weight of his stare keenly upon me. I resisted the temptation to turn around.

"What is it about this case that disturbs you so, Doctor?" he asked finally, having failed to otherwise engage my attention.

"What makes you assume that?"

"You were quite ashen when you saw the corpse. I see your hands are still shaking now. Granted, this was a little unusual, but I believe we've seen our fair share of the dead before."

I shook my head, despairing that I had allowed myself to be read quite so easily.

"What we found in there, it reminded me of darker times."

"Times of conflict?"

I nodded and glanced up to where dark shapes wheeled against the blue sky. "The dead were always easy to find. You followed the smell and the birds. Look up and there they were, circling and waiting. They always got there first."

Holmes's hand appeared in the line of my vision with his open cigarette case on his palm.

"Take one," said he. "There's nothing like strong tobacco for clearing the sinuses."

I helped myself to a cigarette and lit it, letting the fumes scald the scent of death from my senses.

"I should have realised," said Holmes gravely. "My apologies, my dear fellow. But you do appreciate that it was necessary."

"Yes, I understand. Your cousin clearly needs your help, even if he places little value on it."

I made the remark expecting to garner some reaction from my saturnine companion. He, however, seemed unconcerned and instead chuckled at what I had thought would prove to be a provocative statement.

"Well, I shall ever be a 'dabbler' in Perry's eyes. He finds it hard to take my chosen profession seriously. My brother regards it as a mere hobby, so why should not the rest of the world?"

"Because you are unique in your chosen field."

Holmes flashed me the briefest of smiles. "Kind of you to say so. It probably helps that I am able to pay my way by the application of my poor skills. Were I on my uppers, I would own that the charge holds."

"Even then, I would dispute it. You may have your faults, but I'll not deny your abilities."

"Perhaps they are not as great as you perceive them to be."

"Your faults or your abilities?"

"Either, if you believe they vie for competition."

His gaze had travelled down the long stretch of road that led out of the village to where an elderly woman was making her way towards us. Clad in drab clothes that seemed to be little more than rags, she leaned heavily on a walking stick and had a worn basket over her arm, in which she had stowed her few possessions.

"I have never been one for atmosphere," said Holmes after a moment had lapsed in silence, "but it strikes me that this pretty hamlet is riven with decay. I see it everywhere, in the broken windows, the toppling chimney stacks, the falling plaster. Give it another decade or so, and this place will be nigh on deserted."

"Based on what? Not a feeling, surely."

"On solid observation, Watson," said he reprovingly. "See for yourself. Where are the young people? Gone to the towns and cities, and small blame to them. What is there to interest them here, save a polluted river and parched land? Meanwhile, the old grow older, and the children will follow the example of their elders and leave in their turn. And that will be the end of Addleton."

"And no bad thing either," I muttered.

"Oh, you have no love for this place?"

"None whatsoever," I declared. "I cannot shake the impression that there is something unwholesome dogging our tracks. There is something here, something evil even that makes me… well, it makes me fearful, I don't mind admitting it."

"That I blame on your over-active imagination and the reading of too many penny dreadfuls about Gothic horrors and fair damsels in high towers beset by ghouls. You didn't believe half of that nonsense Perry spun us about ghostly Bronze Age horsemen, did you?"

"Perhaps not that so much. But what of the bloodied corn figures and the decapitated goat? That speaks of diabolism."

"No, it speaks of someone trying very hard to spread panic. A human agency is at the heart of this business, make no mistake. Ah, Perry, at last."

His cousin had returned bearing several tankards and followed by the rosy-cheeked landlady, Mrs Lacey. The brown bottle she bore had a heavy coating of dust, and the removal of its cork produced a strange sigh from the contents within as though the presence of light after so long a darkness brought much grief along with the prospect of release.

"I only gets this out on special occasions," said she, pouring a liberal quantity into each of our tankards. "Seeing as how you gents are famous, like, I thought you'd appreciate this."

"We do, Mrs Lacey," said Holmes, eyeing the foaming fluid with some misgivings. "Forgive me, but this is not a vintage I recognise. What is it exactly?"

She winked at him. "Old mother Hackett's devil brew, as she used to call it. Her cauliflower wine is legend around these parts. You be careful how you drink it, mind. That stuff has knocked grown men clean off their feet!"

The sergeant's voice called from within and she hurried away. We glanced at each other, waiting for someone to take the plunge and sate their thirst.

"Old mother Hackett," said Peregrine Holmes thoughtfully. "Wasn't she the lady who came floating out of the crypt and frightened the vicar?"

"I believe that was the name," said Holmes. "Which means this brew must be at least several years old, and, judging from the state of the bottle, I should say a great deal older than that. Well, Doctor, as a man of science, would you care to venture a prognosis on our future health should we throw caution to the wind and drink?"

In general appearance, it was unappetising to say the least. A yellow scum had formed on top of the cloudy liquid and clung stubbornly to the sides of the tankard. Unidentified matter floated in the murky depths and refused to settle with the rest of the dregs. A fierce smell of fermenting vegetation assaulted the nostrils when the tankard was agitated, and only by taking a deep breath first could I bear to bring it anywhere near my mouth.

"I should say that this is probably the most noxious brew it is has ever been my misfortune to encounter," said I. "However, in the absence of anything else, I am willing to take my chances, if you are, Holmes."

He cast me an uncertain look and together we raised our tankards, each watching the other lest one relent at the final moment. Warm, pungent liquid splashed into my mouth, coursed a fiery trail as it continued on its way down my throat and ended with a feeling as though a horse had kicked me in the stomach. I coughed and for a good minute was incapable of speech. Holmes too had been rendered silent, and it was gratifying to know that my reaction had not been unduly melodramatic.

"A very unusual texture," said he when his voice had sufficiently returned. "Perry, you really must try some."

"No, I don't think I will," said he, tipping the contents of his tankard onto the floor, where it sizzled and hissed on the hot earth.

"Waste not, want not," came the chiding voice of the old woman we had seen making her way down the road.

Slowly, but with great determination she had been drawing ever nearer until she was stood just a few feet away. Her skin was leathery and deeply wrinkled as one who has spent many a day outdoors. Despite her considerable age, her hair still retained traces of the colour of her younger days, and the eyes that glared at us and reproved us for our wastefulness were the colour of faded bluebells.

"Ah, Mrs Goodenough," said Peregrine Holmes. "She's the local… well, I suppose you'd call her a witch."

"Wise woman," she corrected him sharply. "No one ever came to no harm on account o'me. I warned 'em I did, I warned 'em good and proper. You oughtn't to be digging in that field, I told 'em. The dead don't like being disturbed. But they wouldn't listen and now looks what's happened. They've unleashed demons, they have! They'll claim us all afore the new moon, you mark my words!"

As an adjunct to this morbid pronouncement, Sergeant Bruce backed out of the tavern's doorway, bearing the upper body of Professor Moncrieff in his burly arms. Mrs Lacey followed, carrying the unfortunate gentleman's feet, and we watched in consternation as they deposited the body with effort onto the stone bench beneath the window.

"You can't leave him out here," I protested.

"But you said he weren't to remain in the pantry," said the sergeant. "We got nowhere else to put him until the wagon arrives from Barbury way. Mrs Lacey'll sit with him to keep the flies at bay till they gets here."

"At least cover the poor fellow's face," said Holmes. "Have some respect for the dead."

Mrs Lacey vanished into the gloomy interior and returned with a white cloth, which she spread over the Professor's body. "That's my best tablecloth is that," said she. "I'd better get it back."

"Now, gents," said Sergeant Bruce, rubbing his hands together in expectation. "I'll go roust up those other fellows and we'll set out for the scene o'the crime."

"Weren't no crime," said Mrs Goodenough. "That were demons, were that."

"Be on your way," said Mrs Lacey dismissively. "Take no notice of her, sirs. She's addled in the head. Says she can cure everything from the palsy to the pox with those herbs of her and there's some folks about these here parts who'll believe her. Me, I take my troubles to old Doc Montague, when the poor man's well enough to see patients, that is."

"Ain't nothing wrong with my cures!" the old woman screeched with indignation. "Tried and tested these were my mother and her mother afore her. See this." She rooted around in her basket and produced a small jar filled with a pale unguent. "This'll sustain a man from dusk to dawn, so it will."

"Really?" said Peregrine Holmes with interest. "That might be useful for me. I find the early hours are the best time for study, but I'm always so tired after ten."

Holmes sighed. "Perry, that's not quite what she meant."

"You mean… oh, good heavens."

"And cures for curses," Mrs Goodenough went on, producing what looked like several lengths of straw from her basket. "Charms for warding off evil spirits these be."

"Holmes, look," I said, gesturing to the thing she held, a small figure of a man fashioned out of straw. "That's what was left on the barrow."

"Good heavens," said Peregrine Holmes. "So it is. But surely this old crone isn't the culprit?"

"No, sirs," chuckled Mrs Lacey. "She's harmless is old mother Goodenough. You be on your way now, good wife, and leave these gentleman in peace."

The old woman shuffled away, glaring at us over her shoulder and muttering darkly about curses and demons. Footsteps sounded from within the tavern and out from the darkness emerged three men with Sergeant Bruce following behind.

"Now you behave," said he sternly to his charges. "This here is Mr Sherlock Holmes. He's a detective come all the way from London to help us clear up this mystery. Which of 'em did it, d'you think, Mr Holmes? You tell me and I'll have him locked up again quicker than Mrs Lacey can skin a rabbit."

As potential murderers went, Peregrine Holmes's three fellow barrow-diggers were singularly unprepossessing. The youngest of the three, introduced to us as Mr Simon Bickerstaff, Professor Moncrieff's research assistant, was excessively lean and had a sickly yellow pallor that exposure to country air had done little to improve. His manner was nervous to the point of agitation, understandable under the circumstances for a suspect in a case of foul murder.

"Mr Holmes, thank heavens," said he, clasping my friend's hand almost desperately. "When we heard that someone was arrived from London, we didn't dare to hope, sir, especially as we knew Mr Peregrine Holmes was your cousin. We are innocent of this crime!"

"Calm yourself," said Holmes. "There is still much to learn about this business before a judgement as to guilt can be reached. Will you accompany us to the barrow?"

Bickerstaff nodded, and we proceeded in the direction of the church. Peregrine Holmes fell into deep conversation with his two colleagues, Mr Peter Travers of Shrewsbury and Mr Joseph Malpas from Birmingham, who expressed their delight at seeing him safe and alive, and thanked him profusely for his good foresight in engaging his cousin on the case.

From what I could gather, they too were amateur historians with a similar interest in the period, also present at the invitation of Professor Moncrieff. Along with Bickerstaff, they had breakfasted together and had arrived at the barrow a little after nine that morning ready to begin the dig whereupon they had stumbled across the body. They had heard nothing, seen nothing and had spent their time since confined to their rooms.

Up ahead, I could hear Bickerstaff confirming this story to Holmes, who listened in grave and thoughtful silence. I would have been interested to hear what he had made of their story, as for myself I had already dismissed them as suspects long before we had rounded the church and started over the stile into the field beyond.

Holmes's attention had wandered, however, and he seemed more interested in our surroundings than in our companions.

"Presumably this barrow has been known about for some time," said he. "Why the interest in it now?"

"As I understand it, the landowner, Mr Enoch Pearce, had only recently come into possession of Long Meadow, where the barrow is located. It was he who invited Professor Moncrieff to investigate its contents. It was a rare opportunity, for most of these mounds are torn apart by treasure hunters, hoping to find gold and jewels."

Holmes smiled. "And Mr Pearce's interest?"

Bickerstaff looked uneasy. "As first we thought it was out of genuine historical curiosity, but the Professor came to believe that he hoped we would find objects of value. He was impatient, you see, and our lack of progress frustrated him."

"If that was his motive, why turn the barrow over to you?"

"Authenticated finds fetch higher prices. Museums and private collectors will pay a premium. It's the provenance, you understand."

"A very shrewd man, your Mr Enoch Pearce. I should like to meet him. I take it he and Professor did not see eye to eye?"

"Indeed they did not. The Professor had a fiery temper at the best of times. He was not a man I should have liked to cross. Ah, there's the barrow."

In a landscape sculpted and furrowed by the hand of ancient man, a round tumulus stood proud and alone, an island in sea of cut grass. Its sides were scarred by the recent activity of the barrow-diggers and a shovel had been implanted into its highest point.

A tent and the remains of a fire could be seen on the leeward side, sheltering from the sharp breeze that rushed across the meadow and ruffled our hair. It was a bleak and desolate place, and it was not the chill air alone that made me shiver inside my coat.

Holmes gestured for us to stop while he investigated the immediate area. His exclamation of dismay was much as I had expected for the ground was as solid as a rock and provided scant evidence of footprints.

The disturbed earth on the westward side of the barrow had a little more to offer, for the indentations and stains where a body had recently lain were clear enough. The footprints impressed around it must surely come from the feet of the sergeant and the men who had helped manhandle the body onto the cart, the wheels of which had left faint ruts in the earth and had flattened the stubble.

"Nothing," said Holmes, when he indicated it was safe for us to approach. "There has been too much activity since for this place to tell us anything. I had hoped for so much more. Ah, but what is this?"

His eye had lit on something half-buried in a patch of discoloured soil. A brush used by the diggers was at hand and he used it to dust away the clots of earth until the object was revealed. He pulled it free and held it up for inspection. A straw man, its head missing and its body stained and broken, lay on his palm.

"Well, Watson, what do you make of that?" said he with satisfaction. "Now this does tell us something."

"My word," said Sergeant Bruce. "However did you find that, Mr Holmes?"

He passed the effigy across for inspection. "Because I was looking for it."

"Buried beneath the body, was it? Some sort of ritual thing, d'you think?"

"Not necessarily." Holmes's attention had moved to the tent and he dipped inside to emerge a moment later carrying a coat. "As I recall, the Professor was in his shirtsleeves. Evidently he came out of here in something of a hurry to have left his coat behind."

"Hauled out I'll wager," said the sergeant assuredly.

"A man of six feet five and strong as an ox?" said Holmes. "No, it will not do. He left this tent under his own power and before he had a chance to retire. Watson, at what time would you estimate death to have occurred?"

"Hard to say given the weather conditions. Sometime around midnight I should guess."

"Could it have been earlier?"

"Possibly."

"When was the last time anyone saw him?" said he, directing his question at the others.

"We left him at eight," said Bickerstaff. "We had worked all day and into the evening to make the most of the light. We returned to the tavern and left the Professor to his meal."

"Which he never ate," said Holmes, indicating the overturned cooking pot, which had a congealed mess coating its insides. "Ah!"

With this cry, he fairly fell upon a large stone which had been used with several others to create an impromptu hearth for the fire. He turned it over and held it aloft, revealing a rust-coloured stain.

"Blood," said he. "The Professor's blood, unless I am much mistaken. This is the stone which dealt him the fatal blow to the head."

"You mean that his killer turned it upside down so that we wouldn't know this was the murder weapon?" said Sergeant Bruce. "Well, I never. How did you know that, Mr Holmes?"

"Because it did not fit snugly in the gap. See how the earth has been disturbed by someone forcing it onto place." He rose to his feet and gazed out across the field, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun with his hand. "And there are the bales," said he, pointing to several heaps in the distance. "I believe we will find several that are missing lengths of twine. Come, sergeant!"

He strode out across the meadow, trailing the others in his wake. I had no doubt that he would be proved correct and remained at the barrow, inspecting the area where the diggers had been at work. A small piece of terracotta pottery protruded from the earth and I stooped to retrieve it. Once the clinging earth was brushed away, a lacework pattern of dots and lines was revealed, fashioned by the hand of a long dead potter.

Despite the horror that had marred this place, there was something moving about coming into contact with the physical remains of history. I knew not this man's name or the age in which he lived, yet our lives had crossed, and I knew him now by the beauty of his work that had lain buried for so many years within the soil.

Clambering to the top of the mound and glancing around, I tried to imagine what other secrets this field contained. That man had made this place his home for many years was evidenced by the mansion I could see to the west, whose red-brick walls had doubtless witnessed the passing of many years.

To the south, Holmes and the others were investigating the bales, and beyond sheep lay panting heavily from the cloying heat of the afternoon. My gaze turned northwards and as my sight adjusted to the change in light, I made out the shape of a rider on a horse, watching me from the ridge of an earthwork.

The beast was no bigger than a pony and excessively shaggy, matching the wildness of his rider's appearance and long, straggly beard. In his hand, he held a long spear, its sharp tip shining in the afternoon light.

I stared, feeling my jaw grow slack. My mind reeled with tales of ghosts upon this plain, of a Bronze Age horseman seen by the locals, come to defend his grave from desecration.

Still I stared until dust began to blur my vision and I was forced to blink. When I opened my eyes again, horse and rider were gone.

* * *

_**Hmm, anyone believe in ghosts? Is Dr Watson seeing things or is it that cauliflower wine? Or is it those demons Mrs Goodenough was talking about? And what happened to the Professor? Has anyone got any idea what's going on here!**_

**_Continued in Chapter Five: Suspects and Arrests_**

_**Reviews welcome and greatly appreciated!**_


	5. Chapter Five

_**The Addleton Tragedy and the Mystery of the Ancient British Barrow**_

**Chapter Five: ****Suspects and Arrests**

I scanned the horizon, seeking out any sign of the horseman I had glimpsed on that lonely ridge. I told myself that it was impossible for him to have vanished into thin air, unless of course he was a ghost as the residents of Addleton had been claiming all along. Despite the undulations of the land, I lived in hopes that my rider would have to break cover soon enough, whereupon I would be able to convince myself that this was no ethereal being, but a creature of flesh and blood.

I waited and saw nothing, save a collection of five figures trailing Holmes's brisk lead as he made his way back to the barrow. I stumbled down its scarred sides to meet him, and at the sight of what must have been my shocked expression, the look of suppressed exultation fell from his face to be replaced with what appeared to be mild disappointment.

"Watson, whatever is the matter?" said he. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Well, I do believe that I have. I've think I've seen the Bronze Age horseman."

Holmes cocked an eyebrow at me. "Are you feeling quite well, Doctor? This sun not getting to you, I hope."

I fairly bristled with indignation at the implication that I was imagining things. "I know what I saw," I asserted. "He was over there, on that ridge."

He sprinted up to the top of the barrow and stood staring out in the direction I had indicated. "Sun behind you, clear view to the north. What would you say the height of that earthwork? Six feet? That would have concealed him from sight. And intersecting with the road at its north-western corner. Conclusive, wouldn't you say?"

"No, I wouldn't. He didn't go that way. I would have seen him."

"No, no," said he, turning slightly to the west. "The hedge is quite high enough to conceal man and rider."

"Holmes," I said angrily. "This was no ordinary horseman. He was wearing furs and carrying a spear, for pity's sake!"

"Not a member of the local hunt then," he returned.

"Who wouldn't be?" asked Sergeant Bruce, red-faced and puffing from his exertions in trying to keep up with my energetic friend.

"Dr Watson has seen your ghost," said Holmes disparagingly. "Over there on the crest of that earthwork, or _so_ he claims."

It was the tone of his voice as much as his sarcastic afterthought that roused my temper. I have long been accustomed to Holmes's unkind comments in terms of my skills or lack thereof in the field of deduction and even on occasion my intelligence, and have always taken such remarks in the good-natured manner which I assumed they were meant.

On occasion, however, I have to wonder.

To have my judgement called into question before an assortment of people including members of his family, scholars and the police sergeant of Addleton struck me as going too far. Words spoken in jest were one thing; public ridicule another. I do have some pride after all.

"I don't claim I saw it," I averred testily. "I _did_ see it." I checked myself, realising what I was saying. "At least, I saw _something_ out there."

"Bearded fellow with a spear and shaggy pony?" queried the sergeant.

"Yes."

"Oh, that'll be the ghost all right. He usually likes to make an appearance to keep an eye on his bones."

"With his head tucked underneath his arm, no doubt," Holmes snorted with contempt.

"You may mock, cousin," said Peregrine Holmes earnestly, "but we have all seen him, even I."

"Considering the wine they serve in the Dog and Duck, that doesn't surprise me in the slightest," came his disdainful reply.

"Professor Moncrieff told me he saw the apparition again on the evening he died," said Mr Bickerstaff, the research assistant. "At dusk, just before we left him."

"And that same night he met an 'orrible end," observed Sergeant Bruce. "Maybe there's something in what old mother Goodenough says about the dead coming to claim those who disturb their rest."

"What is they say about the blind leading the blind?" Holmes muttered. "And people have the temerity to wonder how these stories come about. Give me a few credible witnesses, and I could convince the world that it was flat!"

"You don't believe, Mr Holmes?"

"In ghosts?" He returned to join us from his lofty viewpoint. "No, Sergeant. There is always a rational answer for these things."

He glanced meaningfully in my direction. While I did not deny the truth of what he said, if he was expecting me to acquiesce so easily and help his theory by admitting that I was imagining things, he was mistaken.

"Then explain it, Holmes," I challenged him.

He smiled, and his gaze moved to a point just beyond my left shoulder.

"I believe I can. Look behind you. Here is your horseman, Watson."

I turned around to see galloping towards us, in the midst of a cloud of dust, a portly gentleman in a tight suit of country tweeds on a stocky bay cob with hogged mane and docked tail. This vision was as far removed from the rider I had seen as was humanly possibly.

"That was not what I saw," I protested, but Holmes's attention had moved to the imminent arrival of the newcomer.

"Well, well," said he. "Who do we have here?"

"That'll be Mr Enoch Pearce, sir, from Addleton Farm over yonder," said Sergeant Bruce.

"Ah, the owner of this field. Excellent. This fortuitous meeting saves us the trouble of having to seek out the fellow for ourselves."

Mr Pearce left it until the very last moment to rein in his sweating mount so that his sudden halt succeeded in enveloping us in a thick layer of cloying dirt. Whether this was his intention, I could not say, but certainly by the time we had stopped coughing, the gentleman was down from his horse and advancing menacingly, brandishing his crop as though he meant to put it to good use.

"What the devil is going on here?" he demanded, looking Holmes and myself up and down. "Who are these men, Bruce? Treasure hunters, I'll wager!"

"Mr Sherlock Holmes, sir, and his colleague from London," came the sergeant's reply.

"Mr Sherlock–" He stopped short and his manner sobered. "I've heard of you," said he, waving the crop in Holmes's general direction. "They say you're a clever man."

"Amongst other things, I dare say," said Holmes.

"You get this business cleared up and get this dig back on track, and I'll see you handsomely reward, do you hear me?"

Short, stocky and positively rotund, Mr Pearce was every inch the image of a respectable country squire. The sharp cut of his clothes, however, the impractical nature of his fashionably smart boots and the gold I saw glinting on his fingers, watch chain and tie pin spoke of the gaudy ostentation of new money. The sergeant's impassive expression confirmed my supposition that Mr Pearce was considered an interloper by the locals, aping country ways, but still to gain accepted. His brusque and overbearing attitude, I suspected, had much to do with it.

Holmes, I noted, was similarly unimpressed, not least by the gentleman's unseemly haste for the furtherance of his own interests.

"A man has died here, Mr Pearce," he said evenly. "That is my concern."

"A tragedy, no doubt," said Pearce gruffly. "But there's nothing to be done for him now. I don't see why these fellows can't press on with excavating my barrow instead of standing around engaging in idle gossip."

"Common decency, sir," said I. "Not to mention the nature of Professor Moncrieff's death and the fact that his colleagues are suspected of complicity in his murder."

At this, Pearce's mouth gaped. "Murder, you say? I thought it was an accident."

Holmes's eyes narrowed. "You have not seen the body?"

Pearce shook his head. "I had word that the man was dead. No one told me it was murder."

"The Professor was found bound and garrotted here on this very mound early this morning." There was the slightest of pauses before he went on. "When did you last see him, Mr Pearce?"

"Yesterday evening. I rode out to the barrow as was my custom to check on progress. Moncrieff was dragging his heels over the business, I'm sure of it."

"He was not!" cried Bickerstaff. "The Professor was a thorough man. These excavations, if they are to be conducted properly, take time."

Holmes waved him into silence. "I take it that his interests and yours came into conflict?"

Pearce grimaced. "Frequently. The man was a fool. He told me last night he was planning on ending the dig. Told me that there was nothing to find here. I ask you! Just last year a barrow in West Thannet turned up a treasure trove of gold and gems, and that was half the size of this."

"You argued about this point?"

"We did, sir." He pulled himself up to his full height, which was still a good few inches shorter than Holmes. "But on my word when I left him last night he was alive. I rode away with his curses ringing in my ears. He was a devil, sir, a devil and a firebrand."

"And yet you invited him here." Holmes's gaze returned to the barrow. "Had the Professor mentioned this change of heart to you, Mr Bickerstaff?"

"No, Mr Holmes, he had not. I know he was perturbed by some of our finds during the day."

"Which were?"

"Pottery shards mostly. Several flint arrowheads."

"Like this?" I said, holding out the piece of terracotta pottery I had retrieved from the mound earlier.

Holmes took it and gave it a cursory examination. "Late medieval, possibly fifteenth-century. Glazed slipware, I should say, from a large upright vessel, possibly a jug."

"You have an interest in archaeology, Mr Holmes?" Bickerstaff asked with surprise.

"Oh, it is a passing hobby of mine."

I should have described it as rather more than that, considering the discourse to which Athelney Jones and I had listened in those nervous hours before we had embarked on the pursuit of the _Aurora_ during the adventure of _The Sign of Four_. However, it is never wise to contradict Holmes when he has the bit between his teeth, and my ill humour would not permit the usual credit I would normally have given him.

"You found this where?" he asked of me.

"In the soil."

"Lying on top?"

"Yes."

He passed it across to Bickerstaff. "Do you have the other finds from yesterday here?"

"Why, yes. They should be in the Professor's tent. It was his custom to spend the evening cleaning and recording finds."

"He did not leave such a task to you? That surely is work for a research assistant."

Bickerstaff gave a weak smile. "I have that title in name only, Mr Holmes. He reserved what he considered the most important considerations for himself. It was largely my duty to keep a diary of our progress and transcribe the Professor's notes of our findings."

He vanished into the tent and came out with a tray of irregularly-shaped pottery shards and a collection of flints. Amongst the browns and reds were several broken pieces of blue and white ceramic, glass from a beer bottle, what appeared to be a portion of Delftware tile and a penny of George III. Peregrine Holmes leapt on an unassuming piece of grey-black pottery and held it aloft as though it was a prize beyond imagining.

"This," he declared, "this is the piece over which I was remonstrating with the Professor. You see, cousin, the coarse nature of the clay, the crude construction, even the potter's thumb print. I am as certain as I ever was that this work came from the hand of prehistoric man!"

"I would agree," said Bickerstaff. "It certainly predates the Bronze Age."

"But the Professor had his doubts," said Holmes.

"He would not accept my earlier dating of the barrow based on such evidence," insisted Peregrine Holmes. "We exchanged angry words over the matter, although it does not seem so important now, given the regrettable events that followed."

"Is that a confession, sir?" spoke up Sergeant Bruce.

"It most certainly is not!" he protested stridently. "Professor Moncrieff was alive when I returned to the Dog and Duck along with my colleagues."

"You could have come back later, Mr Holmes. Do you have an alibi for the rest of the evening?"

"I was in my room."

"Can anyone confirm that, sir?"

The remaining three members of the barrow excavation shook their heads. Sergeant Bruce's face took on a smug expression.

"And then there was your running off to London in the dead o'night, sir. I thought that were mighty suspicious, were that."

"I went this morning to get my cousin, as I told you, Sergeant, and I returned. Surely that is proof enough of my innocence."

"So you say. That was a bold move, sir, and designed no doubt to throw us off your scent. But we country folk aren't as gullible as many would like to think. Your mistake was in returning to the scene o'your foul deed, sir. The courts here take a dim view o'murder."

Peregrine Holmes became deathly pale at seeing his alibi so easily broken and in desperation he turned to his cousin.

"Sherlock, for heaven's sake, you must help me."

"It seems to me that you are doing an admirable job of implicating yourself without my assistance, Perry. I'm only surprised the sergeant hasn't arrested you already."

"Good advice, Mr Holmes, that's what I was just about to do," said Sergeant Bruce. "Well, I think that about wraps this case up nicely. Inspector Rose will be pleased. Now Mr Peregrine Holmes, sir, if you'll come along quietly with me, no need to make a fuss."

"But I didn't do it," he wailed. "Why would I kill the Professor?"

"He does have a point," I said, feeling someone should speak up for him if Holmes would not. "The matter was a trivial one, Sergeant."

"Oh, believe you me, sir, I've seen men come to blows over trifles afore now. There was that business with the Brothers Radcliffe not twelve month back when they fell out over whose boar had the biggest trotters."

Holmes let out an involuntary chuckle. "Capital!" said he. "How I shall miss these little anecdotes when we return to London."

"Weren't no laughing matter," said the sergeant. "One of 'em lost a finger and the other won't be siring no children this side o'Christmas."

"Nevertheless, as you say, Sergeant Bruce, it is a lesson to us all in the nature of man. And I dare say that the dating of a lump of pottery is as good a reason for murder as the size of a boar's trotters. As would the proposed termination of the excavation."

Mr Pearce caught Holmes's meaning and his face flushed with outrage. "Do you accuse me, sir? Well, let me tell you that it matters not a jot to me. There are plenty of others who would be glad of a chance to investigate a prehistoric barrow like mine."

"I fear you will be disappointed, for they will come to the same conclusion as Professor Moncrieff. You see, Mr Pearce, your barrow has already been subject to investigation."

"What the devil!" he declared. "When? Name the blackguards!"

Holmes smiled. "Impossible, I'm afraid. Their names are lost to history. Only the evidence of their activity remains."

"This is the first time I've seen the finds together like this," said Bickerstaff, "and now I have, I can see why the Professor was disappointed. Human occupation creates distinct layers, Mr Pearce, and these allow us to accurately date finds. Our finds include a mixture of medieval pottery, eighteenth-century ceramics and coins from the turn of the century all taken from the same subsurface layer. That can only mean that someone before us, possibly many hundreds of years of ago, dug here and created the jumble of mixed finds that we have turned up. I'm afraid your barrow has been robbed out."

For a moment, Mr Pearce blustered with impotent fury. "No wonder she was so willing to sell," he raged, his face becoming an unusual shade of purple. "I'll wager she knew!"

At Holmes's inquiring glance, Sergeant Bruce stepped forward to offer an explanation. "That'll be Lady Stoke, sir, over at yon Addleton House. This here Long Meadow belonged to her husband's family afore Mr Pearce bought it."

"For a princely sum too!" the outraged landowner declared.

"Well, Mr Pearce, at least you still have your land if not your gold," said Holmes.

This was met with a scowl, and then with a foul oath on all of us, Mr Pearce remounted his horse, drove his heels into its side and galloped away.

"The dreams of avarice to dust have turned," Holmes observed, watching him go. "Now at least we have the reason for the Professor's refusal to countenance your earlier dating, Perry. This piece of pottery of which you are so proud could have come from anywhere."

"A pity you killed him because of it," said Sergeant Bruce.

"How many times do I have to say it?" said Peregrine Holmes. "I did not do it. I am innocent of his blood!"

"Nonetheless, I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't arrest you, sir. I'll have to ask the rest of you gentleman to return with me to the Dog and Duck and detain you for further question until Inspector Rose gets here." He rubbed his hands together briskly. "All in all, a good day's work and cleared up in time for dinner too. I'm only sorry it's come to this, Mr Holmes, with me having to arrest your cousin, like, although it's been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir."

"Indeed. Well, one can never tell with one's relations."

"Cousin!" Peregrine Holmes protested. "Have you abandoned me? Surely do you believe–"

"It is not a question of what I believe. Go with the Sergeant, Perry. I shall endeavour to see you again before you are taken to Barbury."

It took a harder man than me not to be moved by the accused man's pleading face and desperate eyes. Had he been my cousin, I could have never turned my back on him as Sherlock Holmes did that afternoon in both the physical and metaphorical sense.

With no further recourse to appeal, Peregrine Holmes looked in his misery to me, and my reply was the offering of a weak smile and the promise that we would strive to clear his name. Poor words to a man who now hung his head and allowed himself to be hauled away, back to the questionable comforts of the Addleton inn, while I was left with the simmering indifference of his heartless cousin.

* * *

_**Oh dear, oh dear, Holmes, you've allowed your cousin to be arrested! What are you playing at? Poor Perry – someone remind him not to drink the water while he's there, and avoid the rabbit stew. Just in case.**_

_**Continued in Chapter Six: Observations and Deductions**_

_**Reviews welcome and greatly appreciated!**_


	6. Chapter Six

_**The Addleton Tragedy and the Mystery of the Ancient British Barrow**_

**Chapter Six: Observations and Deductions**

I count the number of times as few and far between that I have had cause to remonstrate with Holmes in the course of our long acquaintance, yet it seemed to me callous beyond belief to have so readily cast his cousin upon the dubious mercies of the constabulary of Addleton. To my mind, the arrest had been made on the slimmest of evidence, and Holmes had done nothing to prevent it.

My face must have proclaimed as much, for I turned from the scene of Sergeant Bruce leading Peregrine Holmes and his luckless colleagues back to the village, I found Holmes was studying me intently. I had determined not to bring up the question of his shortcomings in so unlikely a place as a field in the vast expanse of the Wiltshire plain, but he had other ideas, and I soon found myself the subject of interrogation.

"You disapprove," he remarked.

A statement, I noted, not a question, and one that had brought a faint smile to his lips. Clearly he found the situation amusing, but then I have never shared the darker side of his sense of humour.

"I find your actions a little puzzling, considering he is your cousin and came to you for help," I replied.

"Well, they do say that a little suffering is good for the soul. Perry will benefit considerably from such an experience."

"Yes, I've noticed you're a supporter of that view. Why did you _really_ allow him to be arrested for murder, Holmes?"

"Because he was becoming a nuisance," he said flatly. "I could think of no other way of being rid of him for a few hours."

As a test, to judge whether he had taken anything of our disagreement of earlier on board, the results were less satisfying than I had expected. Where I had accused him of lying by omission, now I could not tell whether he was being candid with me or not.

In all honesty, I wanted not to believe him, to be told instead that there was an ulterior motive to his actions and that as usual he had taken the view that I need only be told as much as was necessary, or at least a version of events that he thought rather condescendingly that I would accept.

However, I could not dispel the impression that what he had said was very much the truth. I have never known a man more predisposed to placing his own needs before those of others with scant regard for consequence or the finer human feelings. Holmes the sleuth-hound is capable of being an incredibly selfish creature when the mood takes him, and there have been times when his ruthless streak has given even me reason for pause.

In such matters, no one could ever accuse him of personal bias. The perpetuation of a lie for three years is testament enough that this same treatment is meted out to friend or client. Knowing him as I did, I would not have put it past him to allow his cousin to be brought to the very foot of the scaffold before intervening.

Nor could I shake the feeling that there was something in that remark intended for me. I remembered back to his disparaging comments about my alleged sighting of the Addleton ghost, and I could not help but wonder how long it would be before I too became assigned to that same category as his cousin. My stubborn insistence had irritated him, as surely as I had been rankled that strangers had believed me, while my most intimate acquaintance had not. Time must surely change a man if we had come so far only to find ourselves so distant.

For the present moment, it was Peregrine Holmes's fate that concerned me and I was anxious to learn what Holmes had planned for him.

"I take it you are intending to clear him of this charge?" I asked. "You don't propose to leave him to languish under such an allegation forever?"

"As tempting as that prospect is, no," he replied. "When I am good and ready, I shall have no great difficulty in clearing his name, Watson, not least because murder has not been committed in this case."

"What? Do you mean to tell me that the Professor's death was the result of some bizarre accident?"

"A commonplace accident, but an accident nonetheless. Now, I suggest we take a walk in the direction of Addleton House and pay our respects to Lady Stoke."

He started away in the direction of the distant house, and I had to hasten to keep astride with him.

"Any particular reason why?" I inquired.

"Common courtesy, as strangers in her bailiwick. News of our arrival must surely have reached her ears by now. And I am curious as to why she should bow to the persistence of a common fellow like Mr Enoch Pearce and sell him this field when it has such a commanding view of her property. That had occurred to you?"

"Not in the slightest. What I find more startling is how you have arrived at the conclusion that the Professor's death was an accident."

"The deduction was an elementary one based on the evidence at hand. What did you infer from it?"

"Well, it seemed to me that someone struck the Professor down with that stone you found and then bound his body to give his death a more macabre appearance."

Holmes shook his head. "No, that will not do, Watson. The blow you remember was towards the top of the cranium. Now the man was near six feet four; how tall must our murderer have been to strike him down in such a fashion? Our task would be infinitely easier were we searching for a giant, but alas! I fear it is not so."

"Perhaps he was standing on the barrow to elevate his position."

"That doesn't explain why the Professor stood calmly by and allowed the man to strike. The blow was to the front of the head, you recall."

"Then he was asleep in his tent."

"Nay, for he was preparing his meal at the time."

I shook my head. "I must confess I am entirely at a loss."

"That is because you have failed to consider all the pertinent facts. Careful observation has allowed me to construct a logical explanation for the events that occurred on the night the Professor died. His colleagues left him at eight, my cousin having argued with him previously over the dating of the barrow. Mr Pearce arrived soon after, whereupon the Professor told him that the dig was at an end and the pair quarrelled. Pearce in turn departed, leaving the Professor in high temper and high spirits. You remember what he said about hearing the man cursing him as he left."

"You believed his story?"

"I'm afraid I did, which is a great pity because in other respects he would have made an excellent suspect. No, Professor's demise occurred after Pearce had left, of that I am certain."

"Why?"

"In order to answer that, you must first ask yourself the reason for the ill-omens that have been plaguing this excavation. What was the purpose of the straw figures and the severed goat head?"

"To scare the diggers away and bring the excavation to a halt, I assume."

"Precisely. And you would agree that that outcome was not in our landowner's interests at all, since he had the expectation of finding treasure?"

"Yes, yes," I said tersely. "What does that have to do with the Professor's death?"

"Because he surprised this saboteur in the very act of leaving another of his 'warnings' last night. The straw man I found half-buried in the soil attested to the fellow's presence. Now they were working that side of the barrow yesterday. Had it been there earlier in the day, someone would have found it. No, Watson, that offering was left in the time between Mr Pearce's departure and the Professor's death."

"How can you be so sure?"

"We have just agreed that Pearce had nothing to gain by such an act. He said himself that the dig would carry on with or without Professor Moncrieff at the helm. If an accident, why not leave the man where he had fallen?"

"I don't follow you."

Holmes came to an abrupt halt and turned to me.

"If you strip away the extraneous details – the straw figures, the twine, the garrotting – what do you have? A man who died from a blow to the head. Everything beyond that is mere distraction."

"So what did happen?"

"The events as I see them are this. The Professor was in his tent. His meal was cooking over the fire. He had stripped down to his shirtsleeves and was probably sorting through the day's finds. He hears a noise, emerges from his tent and sees someone interfering with the barrow, leaving the decapitated straw figure. His temper is already roused by the earlier quarrels with Perry and Pearce, and he charges out to challenge this saboteur. In his haste, he trips and strikes his head on the stones of the impromptu hearth he has created. That accounts for the position of the fatal wound."

"How do you know he tripped? They could have fought."

"Other than the post-mortem wounds, there were no other marks on the body. He did not even have time to put his hands up to halt his fall."

Holmes frowned, his eyes agleam with the intensity of his thoughts, as we started walking again.

"What happened after that is the most interesting aspect of the affair," he went on. "This saboteur is a resourceful, quick-witted man, able to adapt to any situation in an instant. He wants an end to the dig; all his actions thus far point to that desired outcome. If the Professor has died as the result of an accident, whilst that is unfortunate, it is entirely probable that the dig will continue albeit under a different command. If murder, then the dig is liable to be postponed indefinitely. And so a plan comes to our saboteur's mind. He looks around him and sees…"

He glanced at me expectantly.

"The bales of hay!" I exclaimed.

"Exactly. An admirable source of baler's twine readily at hand. Closer investigation revealed that several bales were indeed missing their bindings. He takes what he needs, hauls the Professor onto the barrow, burying the straw figure beneath him as he does so, and trusses the body and places twine around the neck. The bloodied stone is turned over, so if it is found, it will be assumed that the killer was trying to hide the murder weapon."

"Incredible. Someone has tried very hard to give an accident the appearance of murder. Do you know who that person is?"

Holmes nodded. "I have formed several theories as to his actual identity, all of which fit the available facts. I believe you, however, can provide us with the best description as to his physical appearance."

I stopped in my tracks. "Me? Why ever do you think that?"

"Because I have good reason to suspect that our saboteur and your Bronze Age horseman are one and the same. If not, then I dare say this fellow in the furs knows who the culprit is. Either way, if we can find him, we shall know a great deal more about this business. If you chance to catch sight of him again, do endeavour to take greater note of his physical appearance as vague descriptions of long beards and hairy ponies tell us very little."

What he was saying made perfect sense, but it was the implication of his words that had made the greatest impression on me. He had continued walking, and finding me absent at his side, he too halted and looked back.

"Whatever is the matter, Watson?"

I struggled to find the right words.

"Only that I thought you didn't believe me, Holmes."

He considered my statement briefly. "Is that the impression I gave?"

"Yes. On that barrow, before strangers and your cousin, you practically accused me of imagining the whole thing."

"Not so, Watson," said he assuredly. "You have entirely, and I dare say wilfully, misinterpreted my meaning. If you recall correctly, what I doubted was your claim that you had seen a ghost. As I'm sure you are aware, it has never been my custom to stand idly by and let those who I have the privilege to term as my most intimate acquaintances embarrass themselves with illogical assertions about ghosts and ghouls."

No doubt he had meant well, although I must confess that his imperious manner and conviction that he acted to the best of my interests did little to quench the smouldering fire of my resentment.

"Embarrass myself?" I queried. "Or embarrass _you_?"

Holmes waved the distinction aside. "I am impervious to that sentiment, my dear fellow, have no fear on that account. I simply could not permit you to destroy your integrity in such a frivolous display of superstitious credulity."

"I know what I saw," I insisted.

"What exactly _did _you see, Watson? A man on a horse at a distance. Why did you assume that this rider was a ghost?"

"Because…"

"Because you had been told that others had seen such a ghost, therefore you jumped to the obvious, if erroneous, conclusion. At a stroke, you abandoned those principles which have always made you a most invaluable companion. This I can only blame on the close proximity of my appalling cousin. That incessant whine of his is enough to soften the brains of any man. Had I been aware that he was liable to have such an effect on you, I would have turned him away the instant I heard his knock at the door."

"Holmes, you exaggerate."

"And you prevaricate, Doctor. Now, since you have been hitherto a man of science and reason, I will trust that you retain some smattering of intelligence and attempt to rescue you from your fanciful delusions. You will allow the possibility that this rider could have been human?"

"Well, yes," I replied.

"Good. Then you have not completely taken leave of your senses. There is some hope for you yet. Which leaves us with the necessity of trying to find a logical answer for this person's behaviour."

"He means to scare us away, I suppose. But for what purpose? The barrow is robbed out. You said so yourself."

"Ah, but does _he _know that? Perhaps he imagines there is treasure buried within this barren earth."

"So he wishes to stop the dig and claim whatever it is he believes to be buried there at a later date."

"He has had years to do that, if he was so inclined. Why now? Unless..."

He trailed into silence, his thoughts consumed by whatever train of deduction had brought him to some conclusion about the affair. I did not urge him to share this confidence. If it had some bearing on the case at hand, no doubt he would tell me in due course of time, whenever he deemed it necessary.

"Watson, these are deep and dirty waters," said he vehemently. "I believe before this matter is quite complete, we will have had our share of misery and despair. Is your constitution equal to the task?"

Like the changing light from the cloud-worried sun, Holmes had moved from censure to concern in the space of a heartbeat. Now his hand was on my shoulder and his face had assumed that rare expression of kindly consideration. I defy anyone to keep pace with the many facets of his changing moods, and wearisome task as it is, I am compelled to accept what I find at face value.

"By all means," I reassured him.

"Capital, my dear fellow! Now, look alive. We are about to add another player to this sordid drama."

I turned to follow his gaze to where a man in a brown suit was making his way purposely towards us from the direction of the road ahead. Holmes assumed his most genial expression and waited for the newcomer's arrival.

"Mr Sherlock Holmes?" asked the man.

"I, sir, answer to that name," said my companion.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr Holmes. Inspector Rose at your service. Forgive my tardiness, but I was away last night to Bristol, and had the misfortune to travel back on a bung train this afternoon."

A flicker of a smile crossed Holmes's lips as he shook the offered hand. "You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive."

The Inspector and I shared a moment of concordance rarely found amongst strangers. Our expressions were perfect mirrors, my own reflecting the shock at hearing those words that had heralded the beginning of our alliance many years ago, his at having his life history plucked seemingly from thin air. The effect was as meretricious as ever.

The man himself was broad, thick-set and in his late forties, with a rangy energetic stride that had seen him cover the distance between us in fewer paces than I could have managed on a good day. His beard and moustache were full but finely-trimmed, and what little I could see of his hair beneath his hat was severely groomed with a precision that comes with a military lifestyle. Most striking of all was the long scar that ran the length of the left side of his face, cutting across the side of the lid to render the eye half-closed and ending at his lip, which had been lifted into a permanent snarl. I recognised an old casualty of the battlefield, but failed to understand why Holmes had made the connection of our shared experience in that distant war.

"How the devil did you know that?" asked Rose in astonishment.

I was gratified to note that his reaction had been the equal of mine all those years ago in my then ignorance as to Holmes's methods.

"Come, sir, it is not too difficult to say that you were formerly a soldier. Your bearing has the military stamp, as it that habit of carrying your handkerchief in your sleeve. Your wound is an old one and shows evidence of that haste to be found in many a field hospital where treatment is placed before attention to later appearance. The medal ribbons I see protruding from your pocket tell me you saw action at Charasiab, a fact which can only place you in that same conflict in which my friend and colleague here, Dr Watson, served."

" 'Pon my word, you are correct, sir. I was Lance Corporal Samuel Rose with the 67th, the Hampshire Regiment as they are now."

I noted the faintest twitch of my friend's eyebrows at this confirmation of the accuracy of his deductions, and had to wonder by his omission in stating the man's rank whether he had failed to recognise that fact. That he had not had surprised me somewhat for he was usually perceptive when identifying non-commissioned officers.

"Pleased to meet you, Doctor," said he, extending a hand to me. "You were a Medical Officer out there?"

"Attached to the Berkshires."

His expression darkened. "Maiwand?" My nod confirmed his supposition. "You were lucky to make it out of there alive."

"But not entirely unscathed."

Rose grunted as he gestured to his scar. "Who did? I made it right to the end of the day without a scratch, then near had my face hacked off. That was the end of it for me."

"Although not the end of your foreign travels," said Holmes. "You have spent time in Australia."

For the second time that day, Inspector Rose's face assumed an expression of amazement.

"Your use of several phrases native to those shores is indicative, Inspector."

"So it is, Mr Holmes, so it is," said he. "And right enough you are, sir. I was in Australia, for four year amore at the gold workings. A medal and a wound pension is precious little to show for a face like mine and even less for a man to live on. I was dreaming of gold, gentleman, but there was nothing there for me. When I came back to England, it was my good fortune that the Divisional Inspector of this county was a military man and gave me employ where others wouldn't. I've done well enough, better than those I see begging on the streets of Bristol for what pennies they can get. People are quick to forget and slow to put their hands in their pockets."

The vehemence of his sentiment had brought high colour in his cheeks and perhaps more passion than he had intended.

"Forgive me, sirs, but I find these days the injustice harder to bear. I have to go to Bristol regular like on account of my ma, and it's a sorry thing to have to see."

"Bristol is where you hail from?" I enquired.

"Aye, my family did, Doctor. There's none there now but my ma and she in her grave, sir. I wear the medals when I visit her; she always liked to see them. Made her right proud it did."

His explanation over, he cleared his throat and reassumed his professional demeanour.

"Now, gentleman, I understand you're here on account of the unfortunate business with Professor Moncrieff. Murder, Sergeant Bruce tells me, with a relation of yours being held on account of it, Mr Holmes."

"In actual fact, Inspector, we believe it to have been an accident," I interjected.

Holmes shot me an annoyed sideways glance. "Quite so, and for reasons which I will explain shortly. You have come from Barbury?"

"Yes, sir. That's where the train stops from Bristol. I came in with the wagon for the body. Bruce told me you were here and I had the cart stop out on yon road."

"You came past Addleton House?" I asked. "I don't suppose you saw a man on a pony?"

The Inspector chuckled. "Ah, you mean the ghost, sir? Well, there's some that say they've seen it and so might they have done. But, me, I'm a simple God-fearing man and think as how it's someone playing silly games from the village."

Holmes smiled weakly. "Our sentiments entirely, Inspector. Now, our destination was Addleton House. Would you care to join us?"

He had taken out his cigarette case and, having selected one for himself, surprised me by offering one to the Inspector.

"That's mighty civil of you, Mr Holmes," said he, holding the cigarette between fore and ring finger while a light was put to it. "If you're set on going, it'll be better if I'm with you. Lady Stoke's getting on in years and, what with her being much tried by that husband of hers, she's not fond of visitors."

"Much tried?" I asked.

"Ah, then you've not heard. Lord Stoke's been an invalid for many years, since the death of his son broke his health. Lady Stoke has nursed him ever since."

"Then we will endeavour to tread most carefully and put the lady's mind at rest that this lamentable business will not intrude upon her valuable time for much longer. Inspector, would you be so kind as to lead the way?"

* * *

_**So not murder, but an accident. But who's behind it all? And why? And who's that chap on the shaggy pony? There's more to all this than meets the eye!**_

_**Continued in Chapter Seven: Houses and Horses**_

_**Reviews welcome and greatly appreciated!**_


	7. Chapter Seven

_**The Addleton Tragedy and the Mystery of the Ancient British Barrow**_

**Chapter Seven: ****Houses and Horses**

Distance had given me a kinder impression of Addleton House. My liking for it had not been improved when our trek across Long Meadow had ended at a ha-ha, which presented us with a drop of eight feet. As surely as the sheep were kept out of the estate, so were we. Inspector Rose had then taken us on a circuitous route to the main driveway, so that we arrived tired, footsore and hot under the collar.

The building that we approached was a squat red-bricked Queen Anne-style mansion, considerably added to by previous generations. The roof seemed top-heavy, crowned by an unwieldy hipped roof and sizeable eaves, which vied for the visitor's attention with small turrets added earlier this century. A Georgian portico had been attached to the front of the house with little concern for overall appearance, so that it seemed as though a classical temple and a sturdy manor house had been cut in two and joined together to create this incongruous affront to the eye.

To add insult to injury, we were then forced to shun the main door to seek out the tradesmen's entrance, since as the Inspector explained, none but their lord and ladyship entered the house that way. When I inquired whether this applied to their friends and titled guests, he answered in the affirmative, adding that since her husband's illness, Lady Stoke had refused all visitors, so the question of where they entered never arose.

Holmes appeared to find this greatly amusing, but I found little humour in the situation, especially as I was being plagued by a pounding headache and was in sore need of a drink. Deferring to the lady's wishes, however, we skirted the side of the house and came upon the stable yard, where a young man was currying a bay gelding. A surly face watched our progress until we had drawn level, whereupon Holmes decided to stop.

"A fine beast," he remarked, gesturing to the horse.

"Aye, that he be," said the man.

"A Cleveland Bay, I'll wager."

"Aye. One of a matched pair." He jerked his head in the direction of another bay horse in one of the stables. "Them's her ladyship's carriage horses."

Holmes strode over to the stabled beast and gave its long brown nose an appreciative stroke. His attentions were met with a snuffled snort of interest and a sniff at his hands to see if he had brought a treat.

"There, there, old fellow," said he soothingly. "You have sole care of them?"

He looked expectantly at the man, who grudgingly condescended to answer. "Joseph, sir. Aye, that I do. Her ladyship takes them out once a day when she gives his lordship his daily ride round the village. They used to have free range of Long Meadow afore her ladyship sold it. I has to take them out now in the garden."

"Indeed," said Holmes. "Well, you're doing a fine job, Joseph. These horses are in excellent condition."

"Well, that's what her ladyship pays me for," grunted the fellow, turning back to continue grooming the tethered horse.

I noticed the surreptitious glance Holmes cast into the adjacent stables before he rejoined us and we continued on our way to the servants' wing. A maid in a wet apron with her sleeves rolled halfway up her arms was hanging out white sheets as we approached, and she stopped what she was doing to stare at us, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

"You take no notice of her," said Inspector Rose. "That's just Annie, old Mrs Goodenough's granddaughter. She takes good care of the girl, though who'll look out for her when the old lady passes on is anyone's guess. Annie's a bit slow, you see. If brains were gunpowder, she'd not have enough to blow her hat off."

Annie continued to stare as we made our way to the open door beyond and into a large kitchen. A massive grate dominated one wall, and it was not hard to imagine the scullery lads of bygone days sweating before the blazing fire as they turned an iron spit large enough on which to roast an ox. Now there was only a cook, a rosy-cheeked, merry-eyed woman, introduced to us as Mrs Cox, and an elderly butler named Jennings, who had his waistcoat unbuttoned, his tie loose and his shoeless feet in a bowl of cold water.

Our arrival produced a fair amount of bustle, though not much haste. While the butler tried to retrieve his boots, Mrs Cox set about making us tea. By the time the cups were in front of us, Jennings had succeeded in finding his socks if not his left boot, which he eventually discovered in the pastry cupboard.

Suddenly the raspberry jam tarts Mrs Cox had placed on the table had become decidedly unappealing. If the butler was in the habit of keeping his boots in close proximity to the cakes, then I dreaded to think what else might have slipped in while the door was open.

Inspector Rose had no such misgivings and was in the process of devouring his third tart, watched enviously by Holmes and myself, when Jennings returned and informed us that her ladyship would see us in the Drawing Room. Holmes was up in an instant, leaving me to down the last of my tea and the Inspector to ram the remainder of his tart into his mouth. With Jennings leading at a pace that would not have been out of place in a funeral cortege, finally we were shown into the presence of Lady Maud Stoke.

A thin-lipped sour-faced woman in her late sixties, Lady Maud sat straight-backed on a floral chaise longue and regarded us as one might a troop of wraggle-taggle orphans come begging on Christmas Eve. She did not offer us a chair, but preferred that we remain standing in the middle of the room with the butler lingering behind us, as though she imagined we might be tempted to slip some family heirloom in our pockets.

She was the epitome of her class, a grand old lady who possessed that rare ability to silence and disdain with a single glance, leaving us in no doubt of what she thought of us.

"Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson," she said, squinting at our cards. "I have no need of a consulting detective, whatever that might be, and Dr Montague from Addleton attends to my husband's medical needs, so if you here on business, gentleman, I'm afraid you have made a wasted journey."

"No business, Lady Maud," said Holmes, "save that of death of Professor Moncrieff."

The lady removed her spectacles and placed them on the side table. "Oh, yes. The gentleman who was silly enough to get himself killed."

"Indeed. Most careless of him."

"Sergeant Bruce informed me it was murder this morning. Idle oaf that he is, I would not have credited the man with enough wit to call upon the services of a London 'detective'."

She peered at Holmes curiously as though her train of thought had caused her to reassess at least one member of the dubious band brought into her presence.

"I am here on account of my cousin, Mr Peregrine Holmes. He was a member of the group who were involved in the excavation of the barrow. He stands accused of the Professor's murder."

The wary eyes relaxed just a little at this news.

"I thought your face looked familiar. This cousin of yours would be the appalling man with the overly morbid interest in ancient death rituals? Well, it comes as no great revelation that his nature turned to murder."

"Mr Holmes here thinks it was an accident, ma'am," interjected Inspector Rose.

"Indeed? Perhaps you would be kind enough to explain what accident could result in a man meeting such an end."

"I fear such details of the baser designs of mankind would not bear your hearing, Lady Maud," said Holmes diplomatically.

She returned his gaze with that rare composure borne of her patrician upbringing. "You would be surprised, Mr Holmes. Death and suffering touches even our remote corner of the world."

"Nevertheless," said he. "Our visit was not with the intention to cause distress. Merely to set your mind at ease."

"My mind will never be so, Mr Holmes. As to my husband, I fear this news will only fever his brain further."

"Lord Stoke was uneasy that the barrow was being dug up," explained the Inspector.

"It was nothing short of desecration," insisted Lady Maud. "I have always adhered to the belief that the dead should be allowed to rest in peace, however long interred. It was grievous news indeed when we learnt of Mr Pearce's intention for the barrow. It was my understanding that he had wanted Long Meadow for pasture. I was ignorant of the man's motive until Professor Moncrieff and your cousin paid my husband and I a visit, wanting information on the barrow. My husband's health has never been strong, but this news caused him to suffer complete collapse as a result of this deception. In his few lucid moments he talks of nothing else."

Holmes had wandered to the window, whose wide bays gave out an impressive view over Long Meadow, the barrow and the distant prospect of Addleton, prompting me to ask the question that had occasioned our own visit.

"We did wonder why you did sell, Lady Maud, considering that it abuts onto the back of your house," said I.

She gave me a long, hard stare, the first she had spared me since I had entered the room. "A house such as this does not have a 'back', as you so inelegantly term it, Doctor. You refer of course to the garden front."

Holmes shot me an amused glance, and I was left to mumble an apology for my social ineptitude.

"However, I do take your meaning. My situation is a lamentable one, gentleman. My son is dead, my husband's line extinct. This land yields little enough and the fall in agricultural prices has further weakened its worth. The price Mr Pearce paid for Long Meadow enables me to keep this house in a state of reasonable repair. When my husband has passed away, I do not intend to remain here, but to retire to my family's estates. I would rather sell while I am able than to have that decision made by my executors."

"The people'll be sorry to see you go, Lady Maud," said Inspector Rose. "There's been Stokes at Addleton for seven hundred years."

"My son mattered," she replied coldly. "This estate ceased to have any meaning for me the day he died."

"Your son?" said Holmes, taking up a framed daguerreotype of a young lad on horseback from the side, which he in turn passed to me.

I stared at the faded face ringed with boyish curls, the noble position in the saddle and the unmistakeable shape of the Addleton barrow in the background. A moment later, the image was plucked from my hand by Jennings, who dusted my fingerprints from its surface and returned it to its former place of honour.

She nodded. "Aloysius was a captain in the Tenth, the Prince of Wales' Own Royal Regiment of Hussars. He and his men were sent to Afghanistan. On the 31st March 1879, they attempted to cross the Kabul River in the dead of night. My son was one of many who did not make it to the other side."

"Your son was among those lost in the river disaster?" I said, recalling the incident. "Over forty men died that night, yet only nineteen bodies were ever recovered."

"My son's was not," said Lady Maud. "The one comfort of an empty grave is the certainty that his bones will never be disturbed, unlike the unfortunate in the barrow. You served in that campaign, Doctor?"

"Yes. In fact, one of my first duties was to treat several members of the Tenth for minor injuries."

"You met my son?" the lady asked, her face alive with unaccustomed emotion.

"Forgive me, Lady Maud, it was a long time ago. It is possible, but I cannot be certain."

"A long time ago, as you say, Doctor," said she, transferring her gaze to Inspector Rose. "People forget."

"Well, we have taken up enough of your valuable time," said Holmes decisively. "We will impose no further, Lady Maud. Good day."

Whether he had lost interest in the interview or something had passed in our conversation that had given him cause for concern, I could not say. Certainly, his haste in leaving took all parties by surprise, so that the aged butler had scarcely had time to open the door than Holmes was through it.

The Inspector and I hurried to catch up with him, doing so only when he paused for a moment in the kitchen yard. Annie had finished the laundry and had been joined by her grandmother, Mrs Goodenough, who sat with a cup of Mrs Cox's tea in her hand. Our appearance caused little enough stir, save that one regarded us with curiosity, the other blankly.

"Are you returning to Addleton with us?" Holmes asked Inspector Rose.

"No, sir. I'll be accompanying the Professor's body back to Barbury. You'll be staying at the Dog and Duck? You'll not go far wrong there, Mr Holmes. That Mrs Lacey is a fine cook."

"I dare say she is. What of my cousin, Inspector?"

"Well, sir, seeing how you've explained it, I don't see how the charge can hold. Still, I'll have to ask him and his friends to remain in Addleton until we clear up this business about the desecration of the corpse."

"Murder will out," spoke up Mrs Goodenough, extending a gnarled finger in our direction. "You stay here long enough, you'll see the dead come back to life!"

"And on that note, we will bid you good day," said Holmes. "Come, Watson, we have a fair walk before us and the dusk is rapidly approaching."

Holmes had already started away and it was left to me to make our farewells. I finally fell in step beside him and was about to question him about the purpose of our visit when he put a finger to his lips to indicate that silence had much to recommend it. Only when we were out of the carriage way and on the road back to Addleton did he relax his guard enough to permit my curiosity.

"Those walls have ears and Lady Stoke's servants are very loyal," he said, glancing back at the house. "What did you make it, Watson?"

"Well, it seemed to me that you were inordinately interested in those stables. Were there any shaggy ponies hiding in the corners?"

Holmes gave a snort of laughter. "No, Doctor, although I am gratified to see that you took the meaning of my interest. That groom would have made an excellent candidate for your Bronze Age rider."

I considered. "My impression was too vague, Holmes. It could have been him. Or it might not. I'm sorry I cannot be more definite."

"Ah, no matter."

He knocked a loose stone from our path with his cane and watched it roll into the grass verge.

"Do you remember her son?"

"It was over fifteen years ago," I replied. "I've treated many since. I cannot recall all their names and faces."

"She had such hope," he mused. "That the prospect of a mention of her son from a stranger should affect her in such a way puzzles me."

His bemusement came as no great revelation to me. That so cold-blooded a creature as Holmes should have trouble understanding the sentiments of his fellow man was the price he paid for emotional detachment. No doubt no great loss to him, but a grievous one to those forced into his close acquaintance.

One may admire such objectivity, but it has always seemed to me a flaw rather than a virtue. I have always wondered if he truly did not understand, or if it simply suited him not to have to engage with those feelings that grieve and elate his fellow man.

If the former, then its limitations when faced with motives of a bereaved mother who wished for news, however slight, of the son she would never see again, were readily evident. To be so deficient in human sympathy, whether by fate or design, must surely be as great a hindrance as possession of those emotions in excess. It helped explain how he could fail to see why I had taken umbrage at manipulation and perpetuated deceit, but it did not excuse. And I was not in particularly forgiving mood.

"It's called grief, Holmes," I said testily. "If you had ever lost someone dear, you would understand."

"I have, but I do not," he replied succinctly. "It must be rationalised for what it is, not indulged."

"Ah, so that is where I have been going wrong all these years."

He cast me a dull look. "Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Watson. I was of course referring to Lady Stoke."

"Which is even worse," I said reprovingly. "I do not mind telling you, Holmes, that this case has been a trial, both because of the business at hand and your attitude."

"My attitude is as it has ever been," he remarked. "Have you considered that the fault may lie on your part?"

"Fault?" I echoed with annoyance.

"Yes, indeed, my dear fellow. You have been most irascible ever since we set foot upon the outward train. Since the only factor that makes this case a little out of the ordinary is my cousin, I can only assume that your current disposition is attributable to him."

The arrogance of the man was outrageous.

"If the presence of your cousin has done anything, it is to open my eyes. Your ability to treat a member of your family so callously I fear bodes ill for me. But then I already know that, don't I?"

Holmes sighed. "Watson, must we have this tiresome discussion yet again? What do I have to do to convince you that my disappearance was the only way? Not one of two ways, or ten ways. You do understand the meaning of 'only', I take it?"

"Don't bandy words with me over semantics, Holmes. I know what 'only' means. At least I know what it means to you. What it means to the rest of the world is quite another matter."

"Then this conversation is pointless, since we have both adopted conflicting positions and can never reach agreement. Shall we let the matter lie?"

Whether that was my wish or not, he had effectively called an end to the discussion. I would get nowhere pursuing the issue against his will, and in the growing humidity of evening I would be wasting breath that I did not have to spare.

We had come to the end of the lane and turned into the main street of Addleton. In the half-light of dusk, the village had taken on a more sinister aspect, and the lights glimpsed behind tattered curtains gave the impression of eyes glinting beneath hooded lids. In the sky above, dark clouds were gathering to the west, and the air carried that weight that heralds the coming of a thunderstorm. The hairs rose on the back of my neck and despite the temperature I shivered.

"I am beginning to take your meaning about the horror of these secluded country places," I grumbled. "Personally, nothing will make me happier than to leave Addleton for good and never return. I have yet to encounter any place more conducive to resurrecting unhappy memories of the past than here."

"A good night's sleep may improve your impression of the place," said Holmes. "However, you are unlikely to get it at the Dog and Duck. The sleeping arrangements are hardly congenial."

I discovered what he meant soon enough. The inn had but three habitable rooms for guests, and it transpired that the members of the excavation had been sparing what little space there was between them. At one time, they had been sleeping three to a room when the team had comprised of ten diggers, and I imagined it was the lesser of two evils for the Professor to have made the decision that a night in Long Meadow was preferable to the inn.

As it was, we faced the prospect of sharing with Peregrine Holmes, who after the departure of the others, had enjoyed a room all to himself. I was soon to discover why.

"I am something of a restless sleeper," he had explained over our meagre dinner of salt beef sandwiches and cider. His _joie de vivre_ had returned somewhat after Holmes had grudgingly told him that the charge against him would not stand. Compared with an arrest for murder, being informed that his continued presence was required in Addleton until the investigation was complete was a minor inconvenience.

"You suffer from nightmares?" I had asked.

"No," Holmes had said tersely. "He sleepwalks. Perry was once found slumbering halfway up the inside of a chimney and a devil of a job they had to get him down."

"Ah, but it is not so bad as once it was," his cousin had asserted. "I visited a specialist in London, who gave me special salts to be taken in a pint of water before bedtime. I am virtually cured, although I am occasionally given to expressing my thoughts in the most vocal of terms. More distressingly, I have developed a most unfortunate compulsion to relieve myself several times during the night. I do hope I do not disturb you too much."

Considering the amount of fluid he was consuming before retiring, this did not surprise me in the slightest. By one o'clock, having been awoken thrice by his wanderings and a raucous chorus of _John Peel_, I was starting to despair of ever managing to close my eyes for longer than five minutes. While I was inclined to live in hopes, Holmes had taken more direct action. When the squeaking floorboards and creak of the rusty door hinges had awakened us yet again, he had leapt from his cot, declaring that he was away to find his peace elsewhere.

I, however, was too tired to follow his lead. To my relief, the night proved to be a good deal quieter when Peregrine Holmes returned, and I finally fell asleep to the soft strains of _The Vicar of Bray_.

This happy state lasted until first light when something made me stir. I sat bolt upright, aware that something had caused my wakefulness but unsure as to its cause. In the bed opposite, Peregrine Holmes was snoring softly, so whatever had disturbed me had not come from his direction. Then, in the silence, to my straining ears, came the sound of hoof beats from the road outside.

I hurried to the window and glanced out. And there, making its way along the main street, was a shaggy black pony.

* * *

_**Ooo-er, it's that pony again. I get this nasty feeling Dr Watson is about to do something very foolish indeed…**_

_**Continued in Chapter Eight: The Crypt of St Mary's**_

_**Reviews welcome and greatly appreciated!**_


	8. Chapter Eight

_**The Addleton Tragedy and the Mystery of the Ancient British Barrow**_

**Chapter Eight: The Crypt of St Mary's**

I have never dressed faster.

I threw on enough clothes to make myself respectable and was out of the room with all due haste. Peregrine Holmes slept on, which I counted as all to the good, for time wasted explaining my movements would be better spent in pursuit of a quarry I had no intention of losing sight of again.

My plan was a simple one: follow the pony in the hope that it would lead me to its owner, who might prove to be the fellow in furs I had glimpsed on the lonely ridge in Long Meadow.

I saw no flaws in my thinking. Evidently, the beast had broken free from its stable. Logically, it would return home of its own accord or someone would come for it. In either case, I had everything to gain and nothing to lose save an uncomfortable night's sleep.

I would have preferred to have informed Holmes of my enterprise, but I could find no trace of him. A blanket was draped over one of the benches in the bar, although its owner was nowhere to be found. If he had been there, he had long since abandoned sleep and gone elsewhere.

I had no time to look for him. By the time I exited the inn, the pony was already to the end of the street and heading in the direction of the river. I hurried after it as it turned a corner and vanished. Finally reaching the spot where I had last seen it, I glanced every which way to no avail. I could have let out a cry of utter frustration that so good a trail had led me to nothing.

My mind briefly toyed with the possibility that the pony was in fact no creature of flesh and blood at all, that my sleep-addled brain had concocted the whole thing. Then, some distance away, I heard a soft whinny and my resolve was firm once again.

I moved cautiously, least I startle the beast, and found myself approaching the old church. Far in the distance, I caught a glimpse of Addleton House and the brooding mass of the barrow. I had to squint to be sure but it looked to me as though a thick grey mist had gathered over the western side of the mound. I was just pondering this isolated phenomenon when I caught a movement from out of the corner of my eye and chanced to see a black rump wending its way between leaning gravestones.

With the pony back in my sights, I followed at a discreet distance. After much stopping and starting, it turned a corner of the church and came to rest beneath the east window where grew an impressive patch of grass. I was spared a look of indifference as it chewed its chance find before being disregarded completely in favour of its breakfast.

As it ate, the pony stamped its hind foot, and I heard the slight squelch as its hoof impacted on boggy ground. The earth beneath my own was slightly sticky too, and to my consternation I noticed that the river had crept higher up the slope of the graveyard so that its lapping waters were within feet of the east wall.

I remembered the gathering rain clouds of the previous evening and supposed that the hills must have seen quite a storm if the river had swollen to these proportions overnight. If so, then this was not the safest place to be. I had heard tell of sudden swells sweeping down gently-rippling brooks to take anglers unaware and carry them off to watery graves. The bloated grey shape that I could see bobbing between the headstones told me that one unfortunate sheep had already met its end in this manner. If we were not careful, both the pony and I could soon find ourselves joining it.

To say that this was not entirely the outcome I had hoped for when I had forsaken my bed and hurried out into the chill morning air was an understatement. Standing in a water-logged graveyard at dawn watching a pony eat grass had an air of the absurd about it. Direct action was required if I was not to relate what amounted to a fool's errand to Holmes in the due course of time.

Aware that those hooves were capable of dealing a very nasty kick, it was with the greatest care that I inched my way in its direction. Its ears flicked towards me, although its eyes remained calm. The nearer I got, the more interest it showed. I had intended to shoo it on, but the pony had other ideas and started forward to meet me. I was greeted by a soft muzzle that sniffed at my hands and pockets, seeking out any hidden food.

I had nothing to offer but a consolatory pat on its neck. My hand came away with a coating of grease and dirt, suggesting that it had been a long time since anyone had given the poor fellow a good grooming. Its mane was long and wild, and its tail matted. The coarse coat had concealed the animal's poor condition and staring ribs, and even my untrained eye could detect that it was in need of decent food. Whoever had the ownership of this beast had been woefully neglectful of its care. No wonder it had broken free to find nourishment wherever it could.

Since the pony seemed inclined to follow me, I tried backing away in the hopes I could lead it to safer ground away from the rising waters. To my relief, it seemed to like my idea and began to follow. We rounded the corner, and were well on our way to the south porch when the pony decided suddenly to speed up.

A hoof landed stood squarely on my toe. Mind-numbing pain radiated from my injured foot as it took the weight of an immovable pony and only with a hearty push was I able to extricate myself.

The force of my movement had more strength than I had intended and the momentum carried me backwards. I stepped into space, toppled down several steps I had not realised were there and ended up cracking my head against yielding wood. Old hinges creaked as a door opened and a black cavern yawned before me.

I had stumbled literally onto the crypt, abandoned after old Mrs Hackett made her impromptu appearance from within on the flood waters several years ago and scared the vicar half to death. Why then was the door unlocked and the hinges not rusted solid? Clearly, it was still in use, but by whom and for what purpose?

It occurred to me that the villagers of Addleton were not beyond ignoring the advice of the inspectorate of public health and had continued their practice of burying parishioners within, although I suspected the vicar might have had objections after his last fright. If, on the other hand, it had been abandoned, it would make an excellent hiding place for someone with little chance of being disturbed.

The startling thought struck me that perhaps I had been wrong in my assumption, that the pony was not wandering away from his home, but _towards_ it. I stared into the black interior, considering the heartless nature of the person who could contemplate keeping an animal in such an environment. For all my fine theories, however, it was no more than supposition. If I was to confirm my suspicion, I would have to investigate.

I pushed the door wide and peered inside. The growing light of dawn cast some little illumination into the gloom, and as my eyes adjusted I glimpsed something brownish-grey stretched out on the mud-covered floor. In shape it was rather under five feet in length and possessed of ill-defined lumps beneath the dirty fabric.

My better judgement was telling me to leave well alone, but my curiosity was piqued. I told myself I had nothing to fear, that the incumbents of this place were unlikely to wish me any harm even if they could have risen from their coffins to do so. All the same, a good deal of time passed before I had steeled myself to enter. From the top of the steps, the pony whinnied softly and, with this snicker of encouragement ringing in my ears, I took a deep breath and stepped from light into gloom.

The first thing to hit me was the smell. The overwhelming odour of dampness coupled with old death and decay made me wish I had brought my handkerchief to tie around my nose and mouth. The next was the realisation that this tiny space was very full indeed.

Coffins were stacked on all sides, piled up one on top of the other, some at angles where flood waters had moved them about. In the centre of the crypt was a more elaborate marble tomb, long since turned green and protected by iron railings. The inscription was buried under years of mossy growth, although I imagined that this was the last resting place of one of the former inhabitants of Addleton House. Here husband and wife lay together for all eternity, soaking wet and covered in algae. At least they were in good company.

What was also evident was that when the river burst its banks, the crypt was liable to flood completely. Dawn's light showed me dirty lines on the walls of this subterranean cavern, indicating the height where previous flood waters had reached. Some were within inches of the ceiling, itself covered with a layer of dripping slime and moss. No wonder Mrs Hackett had come floating out; it was most likely in protest at her surroundings.

With these unpleasant thoughts in mind, I resolved to be done with this foul place as soon as possible, and set my sights on the muddy bundle before me.

I crouched at its side and tried to summon up the courage to touch it. Normally, I endeavour not to let my imagination overwhelm my reason, but on this occasion the sight of so many old coffins scattered around me in state of disarray, some on the verge of disgorging their contents, filled me with a vague impression of horror. I glanced up at the doorway through which shone the reassuring light of day and chided myself for my misgivings.

Taking a deep, calming breath, I reached out to it. My fingers immediately touched something hard, straight and angular. I tugged at the fabric and the bundle rolled, revealing the skeletal features of a long-dead resident of Addleton.

I fairly fell back, shocked and horrified as the skull detached itself and came to rest by my feet. In my alarm, I kicked it away and it rolled into a decreasing patch of sunlight. Too late, I realised what was happening behind me, and I turned in time to see the door swinging shut. I scrambled to my feet and rushed over only to hear something heavy and metallic thud into place on the outside.

My first thought was to tug at the rusty iron handle. The lock rattled, but the door did not budge. I forced the implication of my current predicament to the back of my mind, and again hauled at the door. The ancient timbers groaned, but still it would not open.

I believe I am able to summon up a good deal of composure even in the most disquieting of situations, but I will admit that the utter darkness, the knowledge of my surroundings, the smell and that infernal door conspired to create within me a sense of panic. I was trapped below ground with rising floodwaters outside and no one save these damp bones to bear witness to my plight. Unless someone released me, the corpses in the church crypt would soon number one more.

It was not a moment of which I am proud, but desperate times produce desperate measures. I began to holler at the top of my lungs in the vain hope that someone would hear me. I slammed my fists against the door and pounded until my hands had become lanced with splinters and sticky with blood. Five minutes later, realising the futility of my actions, I gave up and tried to rationalise the situation.

Today was Friday, market day in Barbury. Just the one train called at the station London-bound, as Mr Goodfellow the station master had told me, because all the people of Addleton headed over to Barbury instead. Markets invariably started early. Depending on the distance, either this exodus of villagers had commenced before I awoke or had yet to begin. Convinced now that this crypt had not stabled the wandering pony, I could only imagine that it had escaped through an open gate. Not last night, since its travels would have taken it further. This morning then, and just before first light.

No other realisation could have made my soul sink so deeply. The Addleton residents had already left. The darkness bore witness to my groan of despair.

Still, I told myself that I would be missed. Holmes would surely wonder where I had vanished to and would start to search for me at a decent hour. At the best guess, I had probably four or more hours to wait. This prospect, although not a pleasant one, was at least bearable now I knew help was on the way.

In the meantime, I could do nothing except remain here and wait for rescue. I seated myself on the step by the door, planted my elbows on my knees and tried not to think what a confounded bungler I had been. I seemed to have done everything wrong. This was one misadventure that Holmes was not likely to let me forget in a hurry.

I had nothing on me save trousers and shirt. Given time to consider my plan in greater detail, I would have brought my coat, both to stave off the chill of this chamber and because I had left my pistol in the pocket. One bullet would have shattered the lock and I would have been out of here in no time.

That was bad enough, but I had compounded one error with another by forgetting to wedge the open. It had swung shut and the lock had fallen into place – at least that was what I thought had happened. When I had stumbled onto this place, the door had been ajar. Something had made it close with greater force after I had entered, trapping me inside.

Something or someone.

Yet I had been alone in that churchyard. No one had followed me, I was certain. Had someone really locked me in, or had I associated with Holmes for so long that I was ready to see plots where instead was just bad fortune?

As I pondered this, I was aware of a spreading dampness on my trousers that was creeping down the backs of my legs. I put my hand on the step beside me and immediately felt water drip onto my fingers. Alarmed, I turned to find a steady trickle wending its way under the door.

I rose and my feet splashed in a puddle that was collecting on the floor. The river was rising quicker than I had expected if it had reached the crypt steps already. I tried to remember how long I had been here. Half an hour? In that short space of time, the river had advanced at least six feet. If it continued to rise at this speed, the chamber would be underwater in less than an hour.

The thought of drowning in this fearful place induced me to recommence my hammering on the door with all my strength and yelling at the top of my voice. Deep down, I knew it was futile, but I could not simply sit by and wait for the inevitable. I pounded, I shouted for help, and suddenly my calls were answer.

I heard a voice and the splashing of water as someone outside drew nearer. Iron squealed, the handle turned and I stepped back as the door opened. I blinked as blessed light filled my prison. As my eyes adjusted I took in the black cassock and lean features of my rescuer, and in my joy at release fairly grabbed his hands and thanked him fulsomely for my deliverance.

"My pleasure, sir," said he. "But tell me, who are you?"

"Dr John Watson. And your name, sir?"

"Mr Reginald Peabody. I'm the verger here at St Mary's. Well, I'm the verger of a few local churches, but that's beside the point. Whatever were you doing in the crypt, Doctor?"

I had no other explanation to offer for my presence that would not sound wholly insane, so I decided to tell the truth.

"I followed a black pony into the graveyard, and in trying to entice him away from the floodwaters I tripped and fell down these steps."

"Ah, that would be Old Tippet," said Mr Peabody sagely.

"Who?"

"Tippet the pony. He belonged to a parishioner of ours, Old Mrs Hackett. I believe he was a pit pony, who became shy of the dark and was pensioned off. She could never get him into a stable, so he lived wild. Still does as a matter of fact. The children ride him and give him treats, but he pretty much looks after himself." He gave a delicate sniff. "I should really keep the gate locked. I don't mind him cropping the grass, but he does leave an unconscionable mess on the graves, if you know what I mean."

I did, but my thoughts were preoccupied with the knowledge that I was as far from finding the identity of the rider than ever before. If the pony roamed wherever it pleased, anyone could have ridden it out to Long Meadow.

"You fell, you say?" inquired the verger.

"Yes, the door opened and I saw something on the floor." I gestured vaguely to the interior. "A body as it transpired."

Mr Peabody tut-tutted. "Is Mrs Hackett out of her coffin again?" he muttered, sweeping past me and into the crypt. He gathered up the meagre collections of bones, wound the stained shroud around them and deposited them in an open coffin. "If she had been as active in life as she is in death, then she would never have been run over by the hay wagon. Too slow for her own good was Mrs Hackett."

He had returned to join me, slamming the door shut behind him. The jolt made an iron bar attached to the door frame topple from its precarious position propped up against the wall and fall securely into place across the door. I had my answer as to how I become trapped. Perhaps it had been an accident after all.

"Does that happen often?" I said, gesturing to the bar.

The verger nodded. "The lock is broken and we didn't have the funds to invest in a new one. The blacksmith made us this bar. It's adequate, but it does have a habit of trapping the unwary." He smiled at me. "As you discovered, Doctor."

"So I did."

"We should get to higher ground," said he, eyeing the rivulets of water that were dribbling down the steps. "They say more rain is on the way and there's no saying how rise the river will rise tonight."

I followed him up and found water slopping around my feet as the river ebbed and flowed.

"If you don't mind me saying, Doctor, you were lucky I came along," he continued. "I wouldn't normally be here at this hour, only old Mrs Murray is lying in state in the church and I wanted to check that she wasn't in danger of being swept away." He gave a fractured laugh. "God does move in mysterious ways. It's not often that I'm the instrument of the Almighty."

"I'm eternally grateful that you were," said I. "Does the crypt often flood?"

The verger nodded. "Every time there's heavy rainfall. I know when it's coming because the rats flee the place. And not only the crypt either. I remember one Easter when the river rose so high that by the time the service was over we were up to our knees in flood water. Poor Mrs Sims was extremely distressed; she's so proud of her flower arrangements and they were quite ruined on that occasion. River water does leave such a terrible mess in its wake."

"Talking of which," said I, "you have a dead sheep in your graveyard."

I gestured to the place where I had last seen the grey shape. The water had carried it closer to the church, so that I was able to make out its irregular outline and what seemed to be a collection of rags that had gathered around the body. To my growing horror, I realised that this was no sheep after all, but a person.

The verger and I waded through the waters to drag the corpse to dry ground. The body was that of an elderly woman, whose face I immediately recognised. The unfortunate lady was Mrs Goodenough.

* * *

_**Accident or deliberate? And I'm not just referring to what happened to Dr Watson!**_

_**Continued in Chapter Nine: The Request**_

_**Reviews welcome and greatly appreciated!**_


	9. Chapter Nine

_**The Addleton Tragedy and the Mystery of the Ancient British Barrow**_

**Chapter Nine: The Request**

Leaving the verger praying for the soul of the late Mrs Goodenough, I hurried back to the village with the purpose, as I optimistically termed it, of fetching assistance. With the majority of the Addleton residents departed for Barbury, quite from whom I was expecting to get this help was not immediately obvious.

I hoped that Holmes had made an appearance by now; if not, and if Sergeant Bruce had anything to say about it, then Mrs Goodenough was going to end up in Mrs Lacey's pantry, like Professor Moncrieff before her.

To my relief, however, I saw his familiar form by the door of the tavern, with a blanket around his shoulders and a listless curl of smoke rising up from his pipe. His face was drawn and dark circles hung under his eyes, telling of a sleepless night. He regarded my dishevelled state with amused interest as I approached, but made no attempt to rouse himself from his comfortable position.

"Isn't this a rather early hour to find you awake, Watson?" he drawled.

"I've been up since dawn if you must know," said I. "And most of that time has been spent in the company of Mrs Hackett."

His brows rose. "I would have thought she was beyond your professional skills, Doctor. But whatever is the matter? You seem quite perturbed."

"I've just found a body in the graveyard."

"And this has come as a surprise to you?"

"Holmes, this is no time for levity. It's Mrs Goodenough. She's dead."

He immediately snapped to attention. "How did she die?"

"It looks as though she drowned. The river has swollen considerably overnight. She may have been swept away in the current."

I followed him inside and, while he vanished upstairs to finish dressing, I tried to find some sign of life about the place. Of Mrs Lacey, I could find no trace. The grate in the kitchen was cold, and a breakfast of bread, ham and cheese had been laid out for her guests on the table. My stomach made a growl of hunger as I regarded this meagre offering, reminding me I had had little the previous day.

By the time I had taken a wedge of cheese and buttered myself a slice of bread, Holmes had returned and was impatient to leave. Stuffing my impromptu meal into my pocket, I led the way as we set out for the church and the mortal remains of the late Mrs Goodenough.

Mr Peabody was still on his knees at her side and only at our arrival did he stir from his prayers. I introduced my friend, who spared the verger a grunt of acknowledgement.

"You found her here, in the churchyard?" he asked.

"Over there, by the gravestones," said I.

"She must have fallen in on her way to Barbury," said Mr Peabody helpfully. "The road follows the river. It must have carried her here and left her in the sight of God."

Holmes shook his head and pointed to a branch that was idling along on the current. "To have carried a body so far in so short a time would have required a stronger swell than this. No, I believe Mrs Goodenough has not strayed far from the place where she met her death."

"The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away," the verger said, crossing himself piously. "Had I arrived sooner, I might have been able to rescue her as I did you, Doctor."

"What?" Holmes demanded sharply.

"I got myself locked in the crypt and Mr Peabody was kind enough to release me," I explained.

"When was this?"

"A little while ago."

"What were you doing in there?"

The questions were coming almost too fast for me to gather my thoughts. His expression eloquently conveyed his concern and I was eager to put his mind at rest.

"I had a notion to follow that pony I told you about."

"The one ridden by our Bronze Age friend?"

"Dear me," said the verger. "Everyone seems to think he's a ghost. Well, well, so he's been using Old Tippet, eh? The cunning fellow. I wonder who he is."

Holmes gave him a withering look. "No one in Addleton has ever made the connection before?"

"No, I believe not. It's rare to see Old Tippet in the day, what with him being a former pit pony. He doesn't like bright light, you see. He tends to hide during the day and only comes out at night time."

"A nocturnal pony. Who would have thought it?" The sardonic smile he offered the verger went unnoticed. "However, Watson, I fail to see how we arrive at your being locked in the crypt if you set out to follow this shaggy beast."

"I tried to lure it away from the flood water, stumbled into the crypt and the door closed behind me. I'm told it happens a lot."

"We should really get a padlock for that door," said Mr Peabody. "The children will keep going in there and leaving the door ajar. It's only a matter of time before someone has a nasty accident, but the vicar tells me he can't spare the funds."

Holmes managed a fleeing smile. "Well, no harm done on this occasion, verger. It was most fortuitous for Dr Watson that you did not accompany the other villagers to Barbury this morning."

"On the contrary, I live there, Mr Holmes. It is only on account of several of the Addleton residents telling me that the river had risen that I am here at all. My first thought, naturally, was for old Mrs Murray."

"An ailing parishioner?"

"Not exactly. She died last Tuesday, God rest her soul. We should really have buried her today, but with the river as it is, it appears that she will have to remain in the church until next week."

"Might I suggest that Mrs Goodenough join her, at least until we are able to rouse the forces of law and order?" said I. "There is nothing to be gained from leaving her here for the river to claim yet again. If you think that's appropriate, Holmes?"

He waved his hand dismissively and stepped away from the body to allow the verger and me to lift the body between us. Mrs Goodenough was heavier than she appeared, no doubt due in part to her dripping clothes, and with difficulty, we managed to convey her into the church.

Like the crypt beneath, the church had that same cloying smell of dampness and decay, exacerbated by the warmth of the sun that came streaming through the plain glass windows. The floor had that sheen of moisture where water had oozed under the door and several times I almost slipped on the glistening tiles.

The obvious place to have put her was on top of Mrs Murray's coffin, which rested in the centre of the nave on trestles before the altar, so that both could remain out of the reach of the encroaching river. However, since they had never got on in life, as Mr Peabody informed me, to place them in such close proximity in death would be indelicate to the sensibilities of their souls. The result of this was that we were forced to leave Mrs Goodenough on one of the pews and hope that the police came to collect her before the river did.

While the verger fussed over his charges, I made my excuses and left. To be outside, away from the stifling interior of the church after my earlier mishap, was a joy indeed. I treated myself to several lungfuls of relatively clean air, before I became aware of a noise behind me.

I turned to find Sherlock Holmes emerging from the crypt, his expression unreadable. I watched as he pulled the door to with some force, causing the iron bar to fall into place as it had done earlier.

"Do you believe me now?" I said. "It was an accident."

"I dislike that word," he replied tersely. "It implies that events are beyond one's control, whereas it is quite evident that you were remiss in not securing the door when you entered." He tapped the iron bar thoughtfully. "The verger is quite correct. They should get a padlock. Did you learn anything of value beyond the obvious?"

I had hoped he would not ask, as the little I had to tell him made my misadventure seem all the more ridiculous.

"The pony used to belong to Mrs Hackett, but now it roams wild. Anyone could have ridden it out to Long Meadow."

"So much effort," said Holmes with a grimace, "for such little reward."

I will admit that it had not been one of my greatest successes, but I felt I did not entirely deserve such recriminations. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, even if the outcome fell short of his high standards.

"I thought you would have been pleased. If you must know, the reason I went into the crypt was to see if the pony was stabled there."

"A somewhat improbable notion, Doctor, given the uncertain state of the river. What were you doing out at that hour in any case? Perry wasn't singing again, I trust."

"As a matter of fact, I was in my bed when I heard the pony outside."

"You were awake?"

"No, I believe I was asleep. The sound of its hoof beats must have woken me."

"Unshod hooves on cobbles? Your sense of hearing must be keener than I thought."

He pointed to several hoof prints, which showed clearly that the pony did not wear horseshoes, as was entirely in keeping with what I had learned about its way of life.

"Whatever it was, _something_ woke me up," I insisted. "After that, I thought to follow the pony in the hope that it might lead me to its owner."

Holmes strode briskly up the steps and gave me a pat on the shoulder as he passed. "It did, my dear fellow, for is not the ubiquitous Mrs Hackett interred within the crypt? We may commend the beast for its enduring loyalty to its late owner, but beyond that, your escapade has been an exercise in futility."

"Then what should I have done?" I cried with some heat.

"You should have returned to your bed and stayed there. Instead you have risked a probable drowning. What a find it would have been for the local constabulary! Two corpses come the morning, instead of one. No, Watson, I cannot congratulate you for what has been a most unprofitable morning."

"What of Mrs Goodenough?"

"She drowned," he replied laconically.

"I told you that."

"And you were correct. Now, shall we return to the Dog and Duck so that you may continue your breakfast in peace?"

My hand went to the pocket where I had concealed my horde of food, and he smiled in acknowledgement of my confirming his hypothesis. We walked back in silence, Holmes lost in thought, me nursing my grievances at his overly harsh appraisal.

When we arrived, it was to find a wagon stood outside the tavern with a cow-hocked piebald jangling at the traces and pressing his nose into the empty water trough. In our absence, our landlady had returned and was now busy making breakfast for all and sundry. By some means, our fellow guests had been roused, Peregrine Holmes included, and we joined them around the kitchen table while Mrs Lacey dispensed tea and toast scalded almost black before the now roaring fire.

"Had I known you gentlemen were such early risers, I'd have left the kettle warming," said she, bestowing a plump-cheeked smile upon us, like a proud mother hen fussing over her brood. "Truth is I was late myself setting out for market. Isn't that right, Sergeant?"

The sergeant seemed to spend a good deal of time in the Dog and Duck, and his early morning presence here was, I suspected, not entirely due to the questionable attractions of cloudy ale and dubious food.

"That's right, Mrs Lacey," said he in good humour. "You will have your lie-in in the mornings. I was here at three o'clock sharp with the wagon, and you didn't set foot outside that door till nigh on quarter past."

I almost choked on my tea. What Mrs Lacey called late, some people would have called extremely early indeed.

"I had hoped to be back in time to warm the pot afore you gentlemen got up, but here you all were, up and dressed and baying for your breakfast like hungry hounds. And you gentlemen gone out too," she added, refilling my cup to almost overflowing.

"We were called to the church," said Holmes, who had refused all but tea, and was currently adding the curling smoke of his cigarette to the oppressive atmosphere of the kitchen. "Mrs Goodenough died in the night. You should inform your superiors, Sergeant."

Bruce seemed aggrieved by the news, but not enough to rouse himself to go and investigate.

"I told you she weren't at Barbury this morning," said Mrs Lacey, prodding him with her finger. "I said som'at was amiss."

"And right you were, Mrs Lacey," said he. "The old lady drown, did she?"

Holmes nodded.

"Ah, well, she'll have been out catching moonbeams in the water to add to those cures o'hers," said Bruce. "Always said she had a special ingredient. Them moonbeams turn the water to pure silver, she said. Always out collecting them when there was a full moon." He took a sip of tea and considered. "Poor old girl. Must have tumbled in."

"You do not seem surprised, Sergeant," I noted.

"I've been waiting for it to happen for a while now," said he. "What with her being unsteady on them legs o'hers and not being right in the head, well, I was saying to Mrs Lacey only last week that old Mrs Goodenough would be next."

"That you did," she agreed.

"And what with all her talk about the dead rising from their graves to take revenge on the living, she put the frighteners up folk around here, she did." He chuckled into his cup. "Looks like they rose up last night and tipped the old lady into the water."

The remark struck me as being in very bad taste, considering the fate that had befallen Mrs Goodenough. I looked to Holmes for support, but he had closed his eyes against the world and I could not tell whether he had been listening to the conversation or not. From the deep furrows in his brow, I assumed that his thoughts were on other matters, a supposition that was confirmed when he suddenly sat up, opened his eyes and addressed the sergeant in no uncertain terms.

"Tell me, what are your plans for these gentlemen?" he asked, indicating the four barrow diggers. "Inspector Rose has informed you as to the manner of the Professor's death?"

"He said it were an accident, Mr Holmes, based on your say so, though there's still the question of who left the Professor trussed up like a Christmas goose."

"But I take it there would be no serious objection to their continuing with the dig?"

"Continuing?" said Mr Bickerstaff. "We could not countenance such a thing, sir."

"Would it not be a fitting tribute to the Professor to complete his work here?"

"But you said yourself that it looked as though the barrow had been robbed out," said Peregrine Holmes. "It would be a waste of time."

Holmes managed a weak smile for his cousin. "Until you have proof that the barrow is empty, gentleman, how can you confirm or deny this theory? If I were you, Mr Bickerstaff, as the Professor's trusted research assistant, I would recommence the dig without delay and in that same place where you left off. At least then you will able to finish the Professor's report and lay the question of the Addleton barrow to rest once and for all."

The young man looked uneasy about the situation, although I could tell that he was fast being won over by Holmes's eloquent reasoning.

"Well, to leave the barrow now would be a pity after all the time we have invested in it. In any case, grave robbers frequently leave the corpse, so we may yet find something of interest."

"Capital!" said Holmes. "Then you should make an early start, Mr Bickerstaff. I'm told more rain is expected and there is nothing less conducive to a proper excavation than wallowing about in mud."

The suggestion was taken up in the spirit in which it had been proposed. Bickerstaff was all enthusiasm, although the two amateur members of the group, Mr Travers and Mr Malpas, expressed their reluctance in the strongest terms. Finally, it was decided that they would remain at the inn, while Bickerstaff and Peregrine Holmes would continue with the excavation.

With that, the breakfast came to an abrupt end. Sergeant Bruce said something about how he had better be going out to check on old Mrs Goodenough, while Mrs Lacey disappeared to collect her supplies from the wagon. A few minutes later, Holmes and I were alone.

"Wasn't that a little unwise?" I inquired, curious about his motives.

"You refer to the barrow?"

"Of course I do. What game are you playing, Holmes? You seem to want to place your cousin in harm's way."

"What harm?" said he dismissively. "He's only digging, Watson. Unless he falls on the sharp edge of his shovel, I sincerely doubt that he is in any immediate danger. At least, not while it is light."

Holmes closed his eyes again and I saw the uneasy rise and fall of his shoulders that was the usual herald of his asking me to perform some unpleasant task. I braced myself for whatever request was about to come my way.

"Watson," said he in even voice, "if I asked you to do something without stating my reasons, would you do it, without question?"

"By all means."

"In that case, I want you to return to London this morning. Inform Inspector Lestrade of the events here at Addleton and tell him we need his assistance. There are forces at work here that I fear are beyond the ken of the local constabulary. The man's an ineffable blunderer, but I would prefer his presence over all others in such a situation."

The question of why he did not simply send a telegram to Scotland Yard as he had done on previous occasions flashed briefly through my mind, and I had to believe that he had reason to doubt the Barbury telegraph office's ability to deliver the message into the Inspector's hands.

"Certainly, I will do so. I'll bring him back with me as soon as I am able."

Holmes held up his hand. "I have not finished. Hear me out. After you have completed this errand, I want you to return to Baker Street and await me there."

I stared hard at him. "You don't want me to come back to Addleton?"

"No."

He refused to meet my gaze. His jaw had set firm and steel had replaced the soft grey of his eyes. There was to be no discussion on the subject. That did not mean I intended to let the matter lie.

"And you will not permit me to ask you why."

"We have already agreed that you would not."

"That was before you dismissed me from the case in such a cavalier fashion. Is it because of what happened this morning?"

He shrugged lightly. "If that is what you choose to believe, Watson, then far be it for me to dissuade you. Now, will you give me your word that you will follow my instructions to the _letter_? I will have it for all or nothing; on this point, I must insist."

His voice was so emotionless and his manner so detached that I had to wonder if he quite realised what he was asking. I have long been used to his keeping pertinent facts about the business at hand from me, and had grudgingly accepted that there was more to this case than what he had been willing to tell me. But this was quite different.

In all our time and over the course of many cases, I had never been on the receiving end of such wilful coldness. I have seen him use it to devastating effect on others, yet had never thought to experience it myself. His detachment was almost clinical as he requested what amounted to the termination of years of single-minded devotion at one fell swoop.

To be treated thus hurt, more than I cared to say, certainly more than I cared to tell him at that moment.

Instead, I rose stiffly to my feet. "Very well. You have my word. I will do what you ask."

His reply was to put his cigarette to his lips, and I could not help but notice the slight tremble of his hand as he did so.

"I will not forget this, Holmes."

"I'm sure you won't, Watson. In the meantime, make haste. The train back to London leaves in half an hour. Be certain to be on it."

And with that, I left.

* * *

_**Ouch. That was painful to write. Is anyone else wincing at that exchange? Has Holmes taken leave of his senses? Can matters really get any worse? **_

_**Continued in Chapter Ten: Of Rain and Rivers**_

_**Reviews welcome and greatly appreciated!**_


	10. Chapter Ten

_**The Addleton Tragedy and the Mystery of the Ancient British Barrow**_

**Chapter ****Ten: Of Rain and Rivers**

I shared the compartment home with a mother and her three boisterous boys, the youngest of whom took great delight in informing me that they were going to the Tower of London that day, to see the ravens and the place where three queens of England had their heads chopped off.

The harassed mother had made her apologies and had tried to prise the lad away, but he was as tenacious as a lobster. Seeing how her hands were full with amusing her two other sons, I assured her I was quite happy to listen. She smiled gratefully, and I settled back to play my part as a captive audience while the lad began to divulge his extensive knowledge.

For one so young, he possessed a great deal of information about the history of the capital, especially the more gruesome aspects of city life. In a strange way, he reminded me of Peregrine Holmes and his fascination with ancient ways of death. The pair would have got on well, for both shared that startling enthusiasm for an area of interest that to others might have seemed overly morbid.

However, I was in need of a diversion and the subject matter fitted my current mood well enough. Even while this history lesson was in progress, I found my thoughts slipping back to Addleton and the unhappy events that found me homeward bound while Holmes continued with his own plans in pursuit of the truth behind the mysterious happenings there.

I had thought I would be glad to leave that loathsome place far behind. In all honesty, I was not.

Long before we had reached the outskirts of London, I was already being tormented by the suspicion that we both shared equal blame for my current disagreeable situation. I had been riled from the first by his reluctance to enlighten me as to his family circumstances and I had allowed my resentment about his reticence to fester.

At the time, it had seemed a reasonable enough inquiry. With hindsight, I had the luxury of reflecting that I should not have persisted with the business, for the outcome was not equal to the effort.

Not that I expected him to understand that my interest in his collection of aunts and cousins was less important than the principle at stake. A lie is still a lie, even if by omission. Coming as it did after the most distressing omission of all, Peregrine Holmes's appearance could not have come at a worse time.

Clearly, Holmes had not appreciated any of this – or if he had, he had made no effort to address the issue – for he in turn had been impatient, indifferent and blatantly dismissive, which had made matters worse. Round and round in a circle of mutual irritation we had gone until finally his famed impatience with those of lesser intelligence had got the better of him and I had found myself dismissed.

I was sure I would get no apology. In Holmes's eyes, no doubt I was the one being unreasonable about the whole business. The final straw I imagined had been my getting locked in the crypt.

I had seen the critical expression on his face when he had emerged from that dark chamber. He had already warned me over my credulousness in the matter of the alleged ghost, that I was fast slipping from valued companion to liability. With that morning's mishap, the transformation was complete, in his view at least.

Worst of all was that he had forced from me a promise that I would keep my word. If ever a statement spoke more baldly of a lack of trust on his part, then it had been his insistence on that point. It had hurt more to hear him demand it than to give it, and my feeling was that if Holmes wanted my absence so badly, then my absence he would have, even unto his return to Baker Street.

I had no intention of waiting for him; I would take my fishing tackle and leave for some pleasanter spot, where the dead were not left in pantries or burial mounds haunted by strange riders with a predilection for dressing up in furs in imitation of ancient man.

This vehemence persisted during the journey to Scotland Yard, where I was informed by the Duty Sergeant that Lestrade was out on a burglary case and, if I would care to leave a message, he would see that it reached the Inspector as soon as he returned. I did as he suggested and left, glad to be free of the matter. I found a restaurant and treated myself to the first proper meal I had had since leaving London yesterday morning.

The sirloin was no doubt excellent, but no sooner was it placed before me than I found I had lost my appetite. Anger, they say, is a brief madness, and with my mind worryingly clear, I saw that my sitting here in a London restaurant, safe and secure, while Holmes faced the sort of danger than necessitated the presence of a Scotland Yard inspector, was madness indeed.

I had a few mouthfuls of my meal before I gave up the unequal battle between pride and concern, and headed back to the station to catch the next train to Addleton. It would mean breaking my word, but that would be as nothing compared to what I would feel should something happen to him in my absence. If Holmes was angered by my reappearance, then so be it. I would rather live with his disapproval than have his death on my conscience.

As it happened, no train was scheduled to take the branch line to the village until next morning. The best I could do was to take the main line, which stopped at Barbury, and somehow find transport to take me the seven miles into Addleton. It also meant another night enjoying the dubious comforts of the Dog and Duck and listening to the tuneless nocturnal singing of Peregrine Holmes. Even that would be preferable to waiting at Baker Street for news.

The upshot of this was that I finally arrived back in Wiltshire a little after half past five. After Addleton, Barbury came as something of a shock. It was a large, bustling provincial market town, its high street filled with shops catering for every service that its residents might require. The inns were large, pleasantly arrayed and in good order, and I found myself wishing that Mrs Lacey could do worse than to follow their example and make her own establishment somewhat more hospitable.

Barbury had everything, except it seemed anyone willing to take a weary traveller into Addleton. With the market over, and the square piled with mounds of rotten cabbage leaves and offal that had become rich pickings for scavengers, anyone who had been present had either left for home hours ago or had decamped to a public house to fritter away the day's takings. The only means of getting to Addleton at this time of day was, as one resident told me, by Shank's pony.

Any hope I had that this was some vague reference to a gentlemen with horses for hire was soon dispelled when my polite inquiry was met by a laugh and the explanation that this was a term for going under one's own power. If I wanted to get to Addleton, I would have to walk. Furthermore, if I wanted to reach the village before nightfall, I had to leave without delay.

Seven miles was no great hardship, and the road that followed the course of the river was pleasant enough. Once my eye was caught by a flash of vivid blue as a kingfisher sped past and by the banks colourful dragonflies were startled from their perches as water voles swam busily amongst the reeds. On any other day, a walk in the country would have been a joy, but the knowledge of my destination negated any pleasure I would normally have taken from such a ramble.

My pace was forced, and in the rising humidity my breath was short and my skin damp. A bank of rain clouds grumbled overhead, bringing an early darkness to the skies above Addleton, and it was not long before I felt the first splatter of water on my cheek. One mile from my destination, the heavens opened and down came the deluge.

In a matter of minutes, the temperature dropped, and with rain running down the back of my neck, I was beginning to feel chilled, and not only by the change in conditions.

In the grey evening light, my surroundings took on a more sinister aspect. The river seemed to be swelling by the second, inching higher up the bank with every step I took. Any moment I expected it to wash over the road and sweep me from my feet. My fears were not with substance, for the fields opposite showed sizable puddles where the river had broken its banks the previous evening. It was a safe bet that the sleepers in the crypt of St Mary's were in for another soaking before this night was through.

I was not sorry, therefore, to leave the river behind as the road made a sharp turn to skirt the edge of Long Meadow. The route would take me past Addleton House before doubling back on itself to the village. Taking the path across the field would cut my journey time in half, although I did not relish the prospect of being near the barrow this close to dusk.

I could see it in the field through gaps in the ancient hedge, a dark and brooding mass. A man of more superstitious tendencies would call this no mere mound of earth, but a bringer of sorrow to all those who came into contact with it. It had cost one man his life and me my most intimate friend. I would have nothing more to do with it.

At least, that was my initial resolution. The road took me past the ridge where I had glimpsed my Bronze Age rider and onwards to where the hedge started to thin, affording better views out over the meadow. To my surprise, I perceived the figure of a young lady in a grey dress and bonnet slowly walking towards the barrow. The dress was somewhat old-fashioned, sporting that heavy bustle favoured by ladies some two decades previously, and a straw bonnet unsuitable for the weather.

None of this was entirely out of the ordinary – country fashions tend to lag behind those of the city, and one may be caught out in a storm in the most unlikely of clothing, as my own lack of umbrella and sodden hat could readily testify. What was mystifying was what she was doing walking placidly across the middle of a lonely field while a storm raged overhead.

Where had she come from? If from Barbury, I would have surely glimpsed her walking ahead of me, for the road had been straight for the most part. If her destination was Addleton, then what was the purpose for her visit? I could not believe she was a resident; as Holmes had noted yesterday, the place had been abandoned by the younger generation, leaving the elderly and children to make what they could of the village.

I was intrigued and, despite my earlier misgivings about Long Meadow, I soon found myself clambering through a gap in the hedge and hurrying to catch up with her. What she would make a dripping stranger making a sudden appearance from out of nowhere I could only guess; intriguingly, however, that consideration did not deter me. I was _compelled_ to follow her, less from any definable purpose and more from a sense of obligation.

Whatever the reason, I had not covered half the distance between us than a squall blew up. Rain pelted down, stinging to the eyes and reducing vision to barely two feet in front of me. I lost sight of her and stumbled on blindly until the barrow appeared out of the gloom. The gusting wind died down, the rain eased to a drizzle and I found myself alone.

To my dying day, I will maintain that it is not humanly possible for anyone to vanish as completely as had my lady in grey. I had a clear view in every direction and try as I might I could catch no glimpse of her. The ground had turned to mud, and my own footprints I could see clearly enough. Of the daintier imprint of a lady's shoe, I could see no sign.

I was certain she had been headed in this direction. Had she veered from her course as the downpour started, I should still be able to see her somewhere. I was starting to question my sanity when something on the barrow's scarred side caught my attention and diverted my mind from the mysterious woman.

Peregrine Holmes and Mr Bickerstaff had wasted no time in continuing with the dig as Holmes had suggested. The depth of the trench on the western side had been increased by several feet. Shovels and forks lay scattered where they had been dropped, I imagined, hastily when the heavens had opened.

The volume of rain had torn down this exposed side like a waterfall, stripping away the loose earth to reveal a series of whitish protrusions that ranged over an area some five feet in length. Towards the top of the section, a lower mandible jutted upwards, its row of once perfect teeth now showing gaps where time, decay and worms had released them from their sockets.

The barrow diggers had found their body, although I sincerely doubted it was the one they had expected.

The bones were in relatively good condition and intact, suggesting that they had not been here any great time. Taking up a trowel, I cleared away the earth around the pelvic bone and discovered that this was the body of a woman, a young one at that, probably in her early twenties when she died. A cursory examination did not give me any indication of how she had met her end, and I suspected there had been damage to soft tissue which had long since decayed.

More puzzling was how she had come to be interred in this monument of ancient man when a churchyard would have been more fitting. This suggested her death had been the result of some dark deed that would not bear official investigation. She had been buried quietly and without ceremony, hidden from the world until now.

My skin crawled as the events in Addleton started to make sense. I understood now why someone had gone to such lengths to scare the Professor and the others away. Mild tactics at first with bloodied straw figures, then, when the digging had moved to the site of this unfortunate woman's burial, a more sinister approach with the severed goat's head.

None of this had worked, because the barrow diggers being men of reason had seen these attempts for what they were and had not bowed to intimidation. Had they known what lay a few feet beneath them, they might have been more cautious.

The chief suspect had to be the man masquerading as the Bronze Age rider. The disguise was a clever one. In such garb, he could both keep watch on the group's progress at the barrow and lend weight to the stories of the place being haunted in another attempt to scare the away the weaker members of the excavation. He had done his utmost to prevent the discovery of the skeleton, even turning the Professor's death to his advantage to force the abandonment of the dig.

Holmes had been sure that the Professor had died as a result of an accident, but I had to wonder. This person clearly had a great deal to lose, since either he had buried the girl there himself or knew intimately the person who had. As the dig had threatened this secret grave, his attempts at intimidation had increased in violence. Had he come with murder in his mind the night of the Professor's death, only to be denied in his plans by a chance accident?

I did not doubt that he had killed before: who else but a murderer would need to bury the corpse of his victim in such a manner? Who else would fear its discovery but the person who had buried it there? And why, unless he had buried something with the body that could lead back to him?

As if in answer to my thoughts, I caught the glimmer of gold amid the tangle of ribs. I brushed the dirt away to reveal a crucifix mounted on an oval pendant. One side had a tiny catch, as one would find on a locket, and although my fingers were cold and slippery with mud, I managed to prise the lid open.

Two faded faces stared out at me, one a fair woman, the other an unsmiling gentleman – her parents, so I assumed. They meant nothing to me, though I had a vague notion that the man seemed familiar. I imagined they would have more meaning for the residents of Addleton and, by their identification, thus would a name be given to this unfortunate lady. I stowed the locket in my pocket just in time to hear the three-time drumming of hooves as a horse approached at a canter.

I flattened myself against the barrow's side and inched my way around its bulk. Behind me, I heard the rider pull his mount to a halt. I peered round as much as I dared and caught sight of a mass of hair and the black rump of Old Tippet.

My Bronze Age impostor, complete with wig, false beard, singlet and furs, had returned to the scene of his crime.

I was far enough removed not to be immediately visible to him, although I could just about see what he was doing. Round to the trench he came, a large sack in his hand, which he tossed to the ground in favour of a shovel. I thought he had intended to cover the bones again, but instead he began removing them from the soil and thrusting them into the sack.

It was obvious that he meant to erase all evidence of his crime before the excavation recommenced on the morrow. The rain had been his accomplice in driving the diggers away – at least I hoped it had. I remembered what Holmes had said about his cousin being safe enough until dark. What if the pair had stumbled across the bones earlier in the afternoon and this fellow had intervened before they were able to inform anyone of their find?

I sincerely hoped Peregrine Holmes and Mr Bickerstaff were safely tucked up in the Dog and Duck, which despite its dubious hospitality, was to be preferred over a worse fate. It was where I should have been if I had had any sense, instead of being trapped in the middle of a field while a murderer plundered the site of his victim's burial to further conceal his crime. Clearly, I had two options: remain where I was and allow him to escape, or take action and apprehend this foul monster.

Attack being the best form of defence, I chose the second option.

Before he had a chance to react, I had rounded the barrow, pistol at the ready, and challenged him. For a long time, he stood still, half bent over his grisly business, one hand clasped around a femur, the other holding his shovel. I did not expect the low chuckle that began to rumble from his throat or the sudden movement that brought the flat of the shovel round in a wide arc to dash the pistol from my hand.

The force spun me round, made me lose my footing and end up on the ground. He came after me like a demon, shovel held high above his head. Down it came and, had I not dodged out of its immediate trajectory, I should surely have suffered a fractured skull. As it was, it glanced off my shoulder, sending a shiver of pain through my old wound. I ignored it, knowing it would pay me back with interest for this ill-treatment at a later date, and concentrated instead on escaping the madman's fury.

Incensed at missing, he threw himself at me, arms outstretched, trying to close his fingers around my throat. We struggled until my shoulder and bruised hand began to weaken. This close, I saw the gimlet gleam of wild eyes through the mask that concealed what little the hair did not cover, and I was sure that he meant to kill me.

He bore down with all his strength and I sacrificed one hand to reach for my dropped gun. One-handed, I was no match for him and, with his fingers touching my throat, finally I found what I sought. I struck him with the butt on the side of the head and he rolled off me, dazed and shedding his disguise.

The face I saw, and recognised, made me freeze.

"Inspector Rose!"

Rose, for it was indeed he, snarled like a feral beast and took advantage of my bewilderment to wrestle the pistol from my grasp, near breaking my wrist in the process. He levelled it at me, tearing away what remained of his beard to reveal a malicious smirk on his disfigured features.

"You should not have returned to Addleton, Doctor," said he. "Be sure that you will not live to make that same mistake again."

"What is the meaning of this?" I said, still stunned by this revelation. "Have you been behind this all along?"

"By thunder, you don't remember me, do you? The old girl said you didn't, but we had to be sure. Nothing personal, you understand."

"No, I don't understand. Who is this lady buried here?"

He eyed the remains with contempt. "A mistake, like you. Get on your feet, Doctor. I've some friends of yours who are _dying_ to see you again."

He laughed, and I gathered I was to take this statement literally. With a gun pointed unwaveringly at my head, however, I had no choice but to comply. Rushing to one's death was as foolhardy as meekly going along with the demands of a madman, but I had hopes that an opportunity for escape would present itself sooner or later.

Rose gestured in the direction of Addleton, and we set off across Long Meadow, me with my hands at shoulder height, him with my gun pressed into the small of my back and Old Tippet wandering miserably behind on a long rein. In this way, we arrived at the stile at the back of the church, and I realised my options were fast running out.

I had hoped to see people who would find my plight somewhat strange and come to my assistance. I had hoped Rose would slip or become distracted. None of these things happened. Instead, I was prodded around the church until we came to the crypt. He nudged me down the steps and indicated that I should open the door.

Inside, a lantern had been set on the marble tomb and, to my consternation, I saw by its feeble light the bound and gagged figures of Peregrine Holmes and Mr Bickerstaff sitting back to back on the floor. Two pairs of alarmed eyes darted in my direction, only to widen when they saw that I came not to rescue but to add to their numbers.

A hard push propelled me into the interior and in my anger I turned back to find Rose had remained on the threshold at a safe and unreachable distance. I could do nothing without either risking the lives of the two men or being shot myself. Rose knew this, and grinned at my predicament.

"I'm sorry it's come to this, gentlemen," said he. "But you would meddle in matters that did not concern you."

"Matters like murder?" I retorted.

"As your clever friend pointed out, the Professor's death was an accident. A fortuitous one from my point of view. It saved me from having to deal with the old fool myself."

"And the woman in the barrow? What did you do to her?"

His eyes hardened. "She died because she could not breathe," he stated with a chilling lack of emotion. "And she did try so very hard. Have you ever seen anyone suffocate, Doctor? It's much like watching a man drown. That same struggle, that same fight for life, all to no avail."

"Why?" I demanded. "Who was she?"

He shook his head. "They say Heaven contains all the answers, so I can only exhort you and your friends to be patient."

At this, Bickerstaff let out a moan and fought weakly against his bonds.

"You mean to kill us all?" I asked.

"I'm afraid you have made it a necessity," said Rose. "The river is rising and will fill this crypt to the very roof. Come the morning, they will your bodies in the river, all three of you drowned."

"Like Mrs Goodenough?"

He smiled. "Old Meg, she was a funny old girl with her pills and potions. She didn't struggle, Doctor. She knew it was her time, you see, as it is yours."

He reached into the pouch he wore at his belt and pulled out a pair of ornate shackles bound together by a single link.

"I was saving these for the Professor, but I see you would benefit from them just as well. My grandfather brought them home from his travels in the East. The lock is said to be unpickable, created by a craftsman who was killed so that he would never reveal their secret. Just as well I am in possession of the only key." His gaze returned to me a fraction before the cuffs were tossed in my direction. "Put them on, Doctor, and be sure to secure yourself to the railings of that tomb."

I held my ground. "Perhaps I don't want to be another of your 'accidents', Rose. How would you explain a bullet through my brains?"

Rose tut-tutted. "Now, now, Dr Watson, I would be just as content with two drowned men as three. A man may disappear in Addleton as easily as any woman. You seem to forget that you were meant to be in London."

So I was, I thought ruefully.

"Where there is life, there is hope," he went on. "Your clever friend might come to rescue you. You don't want to be dead when he gets here, do you?"

Peregrine Holmes tried to say something that the gag muffled and he was reduced to banging his heels agitatedly on the floor instead. No doubt he knew where Holmes was and was trying to communicate that knowledge to me. Rose had a valid point and, as absurd as my actions seemed, by complying I was buying myself precious time.

I closed one cuff around my left wrist, passed the link through the railings and shut the other around my right. Rose wandered down to ensure that the shackles were locked and seemed satisfied.

"Do you sing, Doctor?" he asked idly.

"What?"

"Do you sing?" he repeated. "Do you have a loud voice is what I'm asking. You see, I have business to attend to at the barrow, and I can't risk you yelling for help. You won't tell me? Ah, well, I dislike resorting to a gag, but I'm afraid it is necessary."

A foul rag was stuffed into my mouth and its loose ends knotted behind my head. This done, Rose backed away.

"I must go, gentlemen. I will leave the lantern. Death is better borne in the light than in the dark. And try not to struggle when the water starts to fill your noses. Mrs Goodenough went sweetly to her death and I do recommend her admirable example."

With a laugh, he retreated up the steps.

"Oh, yes, I almost forgot, Doctor. What that whining cretin was trying to tell you was that his cousin will not be back, at least not tonight. He said he had another case and promised to return tomorrow morning at the earliest, which I'm sorry to say will be too late for you. So, with that, I shall bid you farewell."

He went, slamming the door behind him. A heavy metallic thud told me that the iron bar had fallen into place, locking us in. Not that it made much difference to our plight; even had the door been open none of us were in a position to capitalise on it. I had shackled myself to a mouldering tomb, and the others were bound hand and foot. I tried to think of a time when I had been in a worse situation and found myself disappointed.

However, what I was sure of, unlike the softly-moaning Mr Bickerstaff, was that Holmes had lied to Rose when he had told him of his plans. I knew he had no other case. I also knew now why he had wanted the excavation of the barrow continued. Evidently, he had deduced the presence of a body within the mound and had wanted to provoke a reaction. Judging from our plight, I should say that he had got what he wanted.

On the positive side, it also meant that he was probably close by in case of this eventuality. I could not believe that he was heartless enough to sacrifice a cousin for the greater good. I expected him to appear, free the pair from their bonds, berate me for not following his instructions and find some way of releasing me from unpickable hand cuffs. It was a happier thought than the alternative, which saw the three of us drowning in a flooded crypt and ending up permanent residents of the Addleton churchyard.

He was certainly taking his time about it, for the minutes were beginning to drag and my back was starting to ache from the unnatural, stooping position I had been forced to adopt. The top of the railings was less than three feet from the ground, too low for me stand comfortably. Wondering how long our wait would be, I swallowed my pride and knelt on the soggy ground.

This brought me on eye-level with a still agitated Peregrine Holmes, who by means of his shoulders and brows was trying to tell me something. I could make nothing of his shrugs and the wild rolling of his eyes, however, and was forced to shake my head. He let out a small groan and visibly wilted.

In the silence that ensued, I was very aware of the sound of my laboured breathing and the sobs of despair that were emanating from Mr Bickerstaff's direction. And then my ears caught something else.

It was the trickle of running water as the river started to gush through the gap at the bottom of the crypt door.

* * *

_**Nasty Inspector Rose! Did you know he was behind it? And – oh dear – what will become of Watson and the others now?**_

_**Continued in Chapter Eleven: Life or Limb**_

_**Reviews welcome and greatly appreciated!**_


	11. Chapter Eleven

_**The Addleton Tragedy and the Mystery of the Ancient British Barrow**_

**Chapter Eleven: Life or Limb**

I know Holmes is wont to scoff at that trite cliché of one's blood running cold, but I have no other means of describing the chill that swept through me at the sight of so much water. In a matter of minutes, I was obliged to stand as a widening lake started to creep over my ankles and ever higher up my legs.

Despair is a terrible thing. In my time, I have seen it reduce grown men to the level of bawling babies, as was Mr Bickerstaff now. Sheer terror at a fate that increasingly seemed inescapable was etched into every stark line of his face. Peregrine Holmes had adopted a more stoical approach, either through force of will or because, as I hoped, that he knew help would soon be at hand. If anything, he seemed rather bored by the whole affair and was growing increasingly vexed as his companion thrashed about and knocked their heads together in his attempts to free himself.

For myself, I maintained a dwindling reservoir of hope. _Someone_ must come, surely. Even the bumbling Sergeant Bruce, probably happily in his cups at the Dog and Duck at this very moment, would be a welcome sight. This was supposing he was not involved in the murderous activities of his superior, although I doubted it. Close country communities tended to be protective of their own, and by his admission, Rose had told us he was an outsider.

So too must have been the woman buried in the barrow, for I could not believe that no one had missed her had she been a local girl. Had her fate been known, this foul deed would have been uncovered long ago. Here then was the reason for the siting of the grave on the side furthest away from Addleton, the perpetuation of the legend of the barrow and the appearance of the ancient rider to keep curious locals at bay.

The whole thing was so artfully contrived that one had to admire the man's cunning, although there was little else to recommend him. Rose had revealed himself to be a cold-blooded murderer, and was about to add a further three names to his growing list of victims unless help in whatever form appeared soon.

They say Providence watches over certain of us, and I knew we had not been forsaken when I heard metal scrape against wood. The weight of water pushed the door wide and coursed into our prison to increase the swell by almost a foot. As worrying as this development was, to my relief I saw the cause was Holmes, up to his knees in river water as it poured down the steps behind him.

In the split second it took him to take in the scene, I saw his expression waver between mild irritation at the sight of his cousin and alarm when he saw me. Reassuringly, it was to me he came first, wading the distance between us in four long strides.

"Watson!" said he, relieving me of the gag that had been stuffed into my mouth. "What the devil are you doing here? I thought we had agreed that you would remain in London."

"You _told_ me to go," I returned. "That falls a little short of our having reached an agreement in my book. But, Holmes, you must listen. Inspector Rose is–"

"A liar and a murderer, who is currently retrieving his victim's bones from the barrow as we speak. Yes, I know. I saw a light by the mound as I came over the bridge."

His eye was held by the cuffs around my wrists. It took but a moment before he glanced up again, and I was disconcerted to find that his face was paler than ever, a considerable feat given that his complexion was near deathly white at the best of times.

"I don't suppose he left a key for those?" he asked, to which I shook my head. "No, I didn't think he would be quite so accommodating. Did he have it with him?"

"I don't know. He didn't say."

"Well, we haven't the time to hunt him down and find out. Do you have your pistol?"

Again, I had to disappoint him. "He has it."

The lines tightened a fraction around his eyes, but he made no reply. Instead, he pulled a penknife from his pocket and left my side to free the pair on the floor from their bonds. Not a moment too soon it seemed, for the rising waters were already lapping around their upper chests.

"Thank God you came, Mr Holmes," said Mr Bickerstaff, clutching at my friend's clothing as he hauled himself upright. "I thought we were surely to die in this terrible place."

Holmes regarded him severely. "You are free, sir, but Dr Watson is not. Run to the village and fetch help. Even the redoubtable Mrs Lacey should have a rifle to hand."

"What of you, sir?"

"After you've gone, I will shut the crypt door to slow the rate of flooding."

"Holmes, no!" I protested, but he waved my concerns aside.

"Do not fail or forget us, Mr Bickerstaff. We are counting on you, sir."

He nodded, cast me a dubious look and waded out into the pouring rain.

"Perry, go with him," said Holmes.

"Actually, I'd rather stay here," said he.

"I don't have time to argue with you. I said–"

"No, Sherlock," he interjected firmly. "It strikes me that my place is here with you and Dr Watson. If I can be of some little help, then all the better. I will stay."

"As you wish. In that case, help me with this door."

I watched with a feeling of growing helplessness as together they forced the door shut against the torrent of water. Iron rattled, a dull thud came to my ears and I knew for certain that all three of us were locked in. I prayed that Bickerstaff would not take too long in returning.

"There, we have bought ourselves some little time," said Holmes, rubbing his hands in a brisk fashion as he returned to my side. "Now, down to business."

He crouched to examine the cuffs more closely and his cousin joined him to peer intently over his shoulder at what he was doing. I could tell Holmes was less than happy at his proximity, although his need for concentration was winning the battle over his vexation.

"Intriguing," said Peregrine Holmes with an appreciative sniff. "A most eccentric design. You know, cousin, it reminds me of a peculiar ritual of the ancient Celts, whereby a condemned man would be offered the chance of reprieve by a test of courage. He would be bound to a tree by his hand and given a knife, so that he could choose either suicide or to sacrifice his limb and save his life."

"Fascinating, I'm sure," Holmes said tersely. "But somewhat inappropriate under the current circumstances, don't you agree?"

Peregrine Holmes's face flushed. "Ah, yes, quite so. My apologies, Doctor. I am not usually this indelicate and so must blame it entirely on this most singular business. I've never had the privilege of being this close to one of Sherlock's cases before and I must confess that it's all been really rather invigorating!"

At this, Holmes straightened up abruptly and proceeded to cast off his coat. "Perry, if you want to help, use this to plug the gap under the crypt door. This lock promises to be a challenge and every second is precious."

"A challenge indeed, for I recall that objectionable fellow, Rose, mentioning that it was unpickable."

"Nevertheless," said Holmes, pressing the garment into his cousin's arms. "We must try. After all, what one man has invented, another may discover. Now, if you wouldn't mind attending to the door."

Finally, he took the unsubtle hint and left us alone. I watched him go about his task with agonisingly slowness, before returning my gaze to Holmes to find that he was dismembering his pocket watch. With the blade of his penknife, he levered the minute hand free and tested the delicately-wrought tip between finger and thumb.

"Yes, that should be adequate for our purpose," said he. "With time and a little patience, you should soon be free."

Despite the closing of the door and Peregrine Holmes's best efforts, the water was still rising and was now mid-thigh. What with the cold and my dire predicament, it was no wonder that I was unable to suppress a shiver.

"Do not distress yourself, my dear fellow," Holmes said evenly, as he bent to his task. "I said it was difficult, not impossible, although I would give worlds to have a sturdier pick in my possession at the present moment."

"I have every confidence in your skills," I replied truthfully.

"That is where you have erred. If you have thrown yourself whole-heartedly into this wretched situation in the mistaken belief that I will pluck you free in an instant, then I fear I must disappoint you."

"I had very little choice in the matter, if you must know. As for me pinning my hopes on your skills, I'll admit that I was starting to have my doubts whether you would appear at all."

"I was unavoidably detained. My train took an unscheduled stop twelve miles outside Barbury, obliging me to trek across field and furrow in the most unclement of conditions. Imagine my consternation when I arrive here to find that my most intimate acquaintance has taken leave of his senses to place himself in the hands of a murderer."

"The same accusation could be levelled at you. I seriously have to question the wisdom of your locking yourself in here with me. This is sheer folly, Holmes. What if Bickerstaff does not return in time?"

"I do not deny that possibility. By the time he has succeeded in rousing any interest from the Addleton residents, I anticipate that we shall be quite up to our necks in water. As for my being here, did you expect me to stand idly and do nothing when faced with the prospect of your imminent drowning? I have already considered all possible alternatives in this matter and this..." He paused and I noticed a grim smile flit briefly across his lips. "This is the _only _means by which to secure a mutually acceptable outcome."

I recalled our previous discussion about his use of that contentious word and wondered if he expected me to draw some inference from its repeated application.

"We are of course referring to my current situation?" I asked.

"Naturally, although it would apply with equal vigour to any other situation which may have occurred to you. As to the present instance, my overriding concern is for time, which as I'm sure you will agree, is not on our side."

"In that case, I should ask you how much you know about this business while I still have the chance."

He spared me the most fleeting of glances and, in that one look, was able to convey more depth of emotion than most men manage to express verbally in a lifetime. Any comfort I took from the knowledge that he was prepared to risk his own life to save mine was dispelled by that uncharacteristic trace of what I could only read as a very real fear of what it should cost us both if he failed. A second later, his confidence was restored, although I was left shaken to the core.

"It will not come to that," said he firmly. "I mean to have you out of here, Watson, one way or another. As to this affair, it is easy enough to explain."

My interest had cooled considerably now that my own situation seemed so desperate that even Holmes despaired of me. Since, however, I had a need to keep my mind from these darker thoughts, I was eager to hear him talk.

"At its heart lies murder," he went on while he worked, "and the lengths a man will go to in order that his crime remains buried. It began here in Addleton, although its reach has taken it far beyond these limited horizons and touched many other lives, yours included."

"I do not understand how that can be. I have never visited Addleton before yesterday."

Holmes shook his head. "You made a very telling remark about the power of this place for resurrecting unhappy memories. You felt, I am sure, that you were being haunted by your past at every turn."

"Something like that, yes."

"Others felt the same, even more emphatically than you did. From the moment you mentioned your brief contact with the Tenth Hussars, your very life was in peril."

"Holmes, that makes no sense. Why should it matter if I could not remember Lady Stoke's son?"

"Not a jot," said he, "but it mattered a great deal that you _might_ remember. That was Rose's fear and the reason for your being lured from your bed in the middle of the night."

"But I was not lured," said I.

"There was gravel on your window sill. I checked after you left this morning. Anyone who can sleep through Perry's nocturnal recitations will surely not be disturbed by an unshod pony on the cobbles outside. I dare say he had intended to drown you in the river, much like the unfortunate Mrs Goodenough, but then you stumbled into the crypt and gave him the much better idea of leaving you to let Nature take its course. Had the river been as swollen yesterday as it is today, he may well have succeeded."

"Why would Rose care whether I remembered this fellow Stoke or not?"

"Because Inspector Rose and Aloysius Stoke are one and the same."

I stared at the top of his head, long and hard enough to make him look up and return my gaze. "Oh, yes. Stoke is alive and well, and has spent all these years masquerading as an honourable old soldier, which he most definitely is not."

"But he drowned in the Kabul River disaster. Lady Stoke told us so."

"No doubt that is the story both he and his mother would like the world to believe. However, the truth is less edifying. I took an interesting trip today to Brighton, more specifically, to the regimental headquarters of the Tenth. They were somewhat guarded at my inquiries and it took some little convincing on my part to persuade them that their interests and mine were the same. As it transpired, they too were most anxious to know the whereabouts of Stoke, since they have not seen him since his desertion on the evening of 31st March 1879."

"The night of the disaster? You mean he survived?"

"He was one of very few who did. Other survivors told of how, on reaching the opposite bank, Stoke remounted his horse and galloped away, ignoring their pleas for help. He was never seen again, in spite of an exhaustive search."

"He left his own men to die? But that's… appalling."

"According to the records, he was a very poor officer, but then I suspect the commission was less of his own choosing and more of his father's. Money can buy everything except honour and redemption."

"What on earth does redemption have to do with it?"

"For the murder of the person in the barrow," Holmes explained. "Was it a woman? Yes, I thought it might be. I cannot yet tell you the reason for her death, although it resulted in Lord Stoke sending his son and heir into arms. You note the timing of his deterioration in health coincides with the news of his son's cowardice and disgrace. Therefore, we must assume that the father held himself accountable. I should imagine then that he disowned the boy. He reckoned without his wife, however, who has been transforming land into money ever since to pass onto her son in her lifetime."

"Then who was Rose?"

"A Lance Corporal with the 66th, as Stoke told you. Like many others before him, after his discharge, he fell on hard times and travelled to Australia in the hopes of making his fortune. There, he fell into the company of Stoke, a rogue in hiding. I am forced to be vague about what happened next, since the facts are only known to the parties concerned. If Rose simply died or Stoke killed him, I cannot be sure, although I would tend to the latter theory given the man's nature. How easy then to assume another man's identity, return to the place of his birth and bury himself in quiet country life."

"Not so easy," I said. "What if he had been recognised?"

"The man had been horribly wounded and left disfigured. What better disguise is that? In giving himself a similar scar, Stoke rendered himself almost unrecognisable."

"Almost?" I queried.

"Mrs Goodenough knew him. Remember her words at Addleton House: 'you stay here long enough, you'll see the dead come back to life'. In that, she referred not to some restless spirit, but to Aloysius Stoke. Unguarded comments made like that before strangers meant that she was becoming an unacceptable risk to his continued security."

"And so he killed her. He said he had."

"Quite so. And if an addled old woman had been able to penetrate his disguise, then how much quicker might the surgeon who had tended his wounds in Afghanistan? Do you wonder that I ordered you back to London?"

There came a sharp crack as the watch hand with which he was probing the lock snapped in two. He straightened abruptly with an outraged curse and I saw smears of blood on his fingers where the broken metal had speared his skin.

"Why ever did you return to Addleton?" said he with heat. "Your stubbornness has placed you in the most deplorable danger."

"My stubbornness?" I echoed, annoyed that my fears for his safety were being used as an excuse for my current predicament. "Wouldn't it have been simpler to have told me what Stoke intended instead of shrouding the business in mystery?"

"I had considered that. If I had told you, what would you have done?"

"I would have stayed. I would never have countenanced leaving you to face a man like Stoke alone."

"That is precisely why I did not tell you. You would not have believed me if I had said that I was never in any danger. I allowed Stoke to believe that he had deceived me. You, however, I was sure he would kill given half the chance. Distance was your only protection until the fellow had been dealt with by the proper authorities. You did inform Lestrade?"

"Yes, of course," I said testily. "I could have accompanied you to Brighton if you were so worried."

He shook his head. "You will not thank me for saying this, Watson, I am sure, but, given the unpredictable nature of your temper of late, I could not guarantee that you would be willing to join me."

"Nonsense," I scoffed.

"Then there was the unreasonable attachment you had formed to my cousin."

I stared at him in astonishment.

"Since I cannot believe that you hold the fellow in any serious regard, for I credit you with much better judgement, I have been forced to assume that your continued concern for his welfare has been to annoy me. That being the case, I took the view that you were likely to insist on remaining in Addleton lest, as you so eloquently put it, Perry was placed in harm's way by my actions. My only option was to rouse your temper to the point where your own sense of wounded pride would keep you away." His steely gaze softened. "It goes without saying that it gave me no pleasure to do so."

Sherlock Holmes is more a creature of habit than one might expect. I have known him long enough to anticipate certain patterns of behaviour depending on the situation. I know what form his anger will take, how depression will grip him when cases are few and far between, and the uplifting airs likely to be called upon when his spirits are high.

I also know that any show of emotion on his part is so rare as to be worthy of note when it is allowed to surface. He reserves it for the worst of times and the fact that I now found his hand upon my shoulder was enough to assure me that my predicament was grave indeed.

"Holmes, what are you trying to tell me?" I asked with difficulty, for despite the water all around me, I found that all moisture had quite deserted my mouth.

A haunted look came to his eyes, which he quickly sought to suppress. "I will get you out of here, Watson, never fear."

"The truth," I demanded. "Now, more than ever, I deserve that."

"Very well," said he with a sigh of resignation. "With the proper tools, I could release you in a matter of seconds. However, since they repose in my room at Baker Street, all I have to hand is this broken piece of metal. I have pinned my hopes on Bickerstaff's return in place of my own inadequate efforts, which have been for your benefit rather than out of any real belief in those skills that you are wont to exult. If he does not return in time, then we must look to alternatives for I do not intend to leave here without you."

To have one's fate described so baldly is never easy to hear at the best of times. However unpalatable the truth might be, it is always preferable to know than to remain in ignorance, especially now it was evident that a decision lay before me as to the course my future might take.

"Thank you for your candour," I replied. "As to the alternative…"

I hesitated, glanced down at my hands and wondered what place there was in the world of general practice for a one-handed doctor.

"We have not reached that juncture yet," said Holmes. "We must persevere. Fortune may yet smile kindly upon our efforts. Perry, come here!"

The genial fellow left his post by the door, whereupon the assorted coats he had been holding against the flow drifted to the surface and floated away. I felt a cold current swirl around my ankles and the water started to lap at my shackled hands.

"Your watch," Holmes demanded, holding his hand out.

His cousin seemed perplexed, but did as requested. His expression rapidly turned to dismay when Holmes proceeded to lever the hands from the clock face.

"Oh, dear," said he. "That was a gift from Evadne."

"Tell her to invest in better quality in the future," said Holmes as the slim hand promptly snapped when he applied a little pressure to its tip.

"What you need is a blacksmith," said Peregrine Holmes. "Our local man is very good, a regular Hephaestus, as I have often remarked to Aunt Augusta."

"Perhaps you could send for him now," Holmes retorted archly. "As you can see, we are in no hurry."

Except of course we were. With my hands near submerged, his attempts to pick the lock were going to be less successful than before. I had a choice, and one that had to be made while we both had a chance at leaving this place alive.

"Holmes, how sharp is your penknife?"

"Do not even consider such a notion," said he dismissively.

"I do and I must," I insisted. "I do not want to drown, and more than that, I do not want you to die in some vain attempt at saving me." I had to take a deep breath to steady nerves shaken by the enormity of what I was about to order him to do. "In the choice between life and limb, I choose life."

* * *

_**Does anyone have a lock pick on them? If you do, send it to the crypt of St Mary's church in Addleton immediately! **_

_**Continued in Chapter Twelve: Gordian Knot!**_

_**Reviews welcome and greatly appreciated!**_


	12. Chapter Twelve

_**The Addleton Tragedy and the Mystery of the Ancient British Barrow**_

**Chapter Twelve: Gordian Knot**

There are times over the course of our long acquaintance when Holmes's legendary obduracy has tested the limits of my patience to breaking point. For once, however, I was glad of it. I knew what I was asking of him and, had our circumstances been altered, I was not sure I could have performed such a request at his asking.

No one _wants_ to lose a hand, but I liked the thought of choking to death on muddy river water even less. What I really needed was reassurance. Holmes duly obliged.

"Watson, I understand your concern, but I cannot and will not comply with this needless gesture," said he. "Not yet, at any rate. Bickerstaff may return with help and you still have a clear foot before the water becomes a problem to your continued well being."

He was correct, as ever. But then it was easy for him to say, standing tall above the rising flood. I was stooped like a sway-backed donkey, my shackled hands barely three feet from the floor, my head rather more so. Should the worse come to the worse, I was for drowning long before either Holmes or his equally lofty cousin.

Still, I could have held faith with Holmes's assurances had I not seen the grey shape of a shroud drifting on the ever-rising surface. Old Mrs Hackett was on the move again. And I had no wish to remain here any more than she did.

For one brief mind-numbing moment, my nerves got the better of me.

"Holmes, as my friend," I said, "I'm asking you to do this, now, while my mind is made up, or would you have me die of blood poisoning too from these foul waters?"

"Neither. As your friend, I will not commit you to harm because of rashness."

The flood continued to rise. My wrists had long vanished under the murky surface and the greedy water was halfway up my arms.

"If you value our friendship, then you will set me free," I persisted. "While there is still time, do it now."

"No," he replied, quietly yet firmly.

I stared at him long and hard. "Would you abandon me again, Holmes?"

Under certain conditions, all men are capable of descending to depths of infinite cruelty. The bitter accusation I threw at him that night in that cold, hateful place was as unworthy of me as it was ill-deserved by him. I cringe to think of my words now as I recall the memory of that slight tightening around his eyes, the only insight I will ever be allowed into his feelings at that fraught moment.

I do not know one man in a thousand who could have stood calmly by, faced with such provocation. Sherlock Holmes is not as other men, however, and what reserves he had to call upon to stay his hand I can only admire. I will ever be glad that I was not alone in that place with his cousin, who did not possess Holmes's steadfast self-control.

"Perhaps you should do as Dr Watson asks, Sherlock," said he.

"No, Perry," Holmes said flatly, his gaze never wavering from mine.

"If you feel unable to do it, then I could oblige. I remember last year I had to perform an amputation on a sheep when—"

"I said, no!" So saying, he glared his cousin into silence. "Now, we will continue to wait. Perry, would you please attend to the door. The water is rising too fast for my liking. Use whatever you can to staunch the flow. We need more time."

He went, taking Mrs Hackett's funeral shroud as he went to wedge in the gap through which the water poured.

"Do you want to forget I said that?" I said when his cousin was out of earshot. I felt weary and wretched in equal measure, and now was not the time to leave bad blood between us. "I thought it would make it easier for you if I gave you good enough reason."

Holmes gave a soft snort of what sounded like sardonic amusement. "You will have to try harder than that to produce such an effect. As to how it relates to your current predicament, I concede the possibility that we may yet have to resort to such measures, but I do not believe we are come to that moment."

"But when we do—"

"Then I will endeavour to make the procedure as quick as possible. Meanwhile, my dear friend, hope springs eternal, as the poet says. We have time, we have our lantern and we have Mrs Hackett for company. What more could a man desire?"

A laugh escaped me in spite of myself. There was nothing about this situation that did not produce within me the most contradictory of emotions. I did not want Holmes here with me, in peril of his life, but I was glad for his presence. I wanted release, and yet I hoped for means other than the loss of my hand. I wanted to believe, and yet I despaired. No greater agony could be devised by the foulest of torturers than this. Without that thin ray of hope, promised by friend and logic alike, I would have gnawed through my own wrist like an animal held in a trap long ago.

Even so, mortality is a state not respected until one is in danger of succumbing to it. I was fast being overwhelmed by the need not to leave certain things unsaid. Whether either of us wanted to admit it or not, there was a good chance I would drown, die from loss of blood or contract some fearful water-borne disease. With the swell now above my elbows and my precious supply of optimism dwindling, I realised that unless a miracle occurred in the next few minutes in all probability this would be the last adventure we would share.

"Where the devil has Bickerstaff got to?" Holmes was muttering when I sufficiently marshalled my thoughts. "He should have returned by now."

"Holmes," said I, with as much determination as a man is able to summon up when prolonged exposure to cold water has left him chilled to the core and shivering uncontrollably. "There's something I have to tell you."

"Will it wait?" he replied impatiently.

"No. About the journey here, Holmes, I—"

"Hush!" said he, holding up his hand for silence. "I do believe, in fact, I am certain that I hear the clumsy fumbling of a burly policeman outside the door. Hah! About time too."

His hearing must have been keener than mine for I heard nothing. I was starting to suspect a diversionary tactic on his part, when to my ears came several muffled voices raised in concern, Bickerstaff's and Sergeant Bruce's among them. There was another person with them, whose voice seemed familiar, although both distance and a stout wooden door were making it hard for me to place.

"Oh, yea of little faith," said Holmes, giving me a triumphant sideways glance. "What did you want to tell me, Watson?"

I was too choked to speak. This wild see-saw of emotion was fast becoming too much for me. I had resigned myself to one of several equally unpleasant fates, and suddenly help was at hand. As usual, he had been proved right and I wrong, and I was glad of it.

Before I could find my voice, however, the door was thrust open and a great wall of water came spilling towards me. I took a step back to brace myself, missed my footing on the slimy floor and, for one dizzying moment, my vision dipped beneath the murky flood. Only the hand that caught my arm and dragged me upright saved me from a sharp encounter with the tomb railings below.

"Steady, Watson," said Holmes gently, when I had found my feet again. "We haven't stood up to our waists in foetid water all this time for you to get yourself drowned now."

I was grateful for the support of his arm, especially now the level in the crypt had been swelled by the flood that the door had been holding back. Even standing as tall as my shackled hands would permit, the water was beginning to tickle my chin. Reassuringly, however, I saw that Bruce, currently surveying our dismal scene from the threshold, had brought a shotgun with him. One carefully placed shot and I would soon be liberated.

Holmes gestured to him. "Over here, Sergeant. Dr Watson is need of your assistance."

Holding the shotgun aloft, Bruce prepared to wade towards us. He lurched forward, forgot that there was a step down and promptly sank into a considerable depth of water. I watched as my last chance for leaving this place alive and with both hands intact vanished beneath the surface. Bruce was up against almost immediately, but the damage was done.

However one expects one might feel at such a moment, I had not anticipated the strange sense of calm that settled over my soul as I witnessed water gushing from both barrels of the shotgun. My forlorn hope was dashed. There would be no more debate. The decision had been made for us.

Apart from the muscle that twitched at the side of his jaw, Holmes was immobile, his gaze fixed upon the blundering sergeant, who was being helped to his feet by Mr Bickerstaff. Another, smaller figure appeared at their backs, and I was surprised to see that the final member of the rescue party was Inspector Lestrade.

"Well, I've found you at last, Mr Holmes," said he, eyeing the waters uneasily. Wisely, for a man of his stature, he decided to remain on the step, with one hand on the doorframe lest the flood sweep him in to join us. "I've been in the Dog and Duck for nigh on an hour waiting for news of you, then I hear from this gentleman here that you'd got yourself trapped in a crypt. I could scarce believe it."

"Yet here we are," said Holmes tolerantly. "Lestrade, have you a pistol with you?"

He shook his head. "Do I need one? The message I received didn't say anything about my being armed."

"Quite so." Holmes cleared his throat and his manner became brisk and business-like. "Gentleman, I must ask whether any of you is in possession of a sharp knife."

"I've got my old fishing knife," said Sergeant Bruce.

He handed over a horn-handled affair with a keen edge and a light coating of fish scales.

"Yes, that will do," said Holmes. "Perry, will you help me? Dr Watson may need some support while I free him."

"Heavens above," muttered the sergeant. "Surely you aren't going to cut off this gentleman's hand, are you, Mr Holmes? What say I run back to the inn and see if Mrs Lacey's got any fresh cartridges for the gun?"

"No, we have no more time." When he finally returned my gaze, I noticed his eyes had taken on faraway, introspective look that I was accustomed to associating with the exertion of the full extent of his powers. I was not deceived by this sense of detachment to believe this was quite the worst thing I had ever asked him to do. "Are you ready?" said he in a voice so low I thought I had misheard him.

"Do it," I said.

"Oh dear, oh dear," cried Perry. "What a terrible thing this is. Can't we follow Alexander's example and simply cut the Gordian Knot, Sherlock?"

"With what?" said Holmes. "The links are welded in place and the metal is strong. There is no—"

The tension suddenly drained from his face to be replaced by the light of suppressed exultation. "Of course!" he declared. "It's a slim chance, but it's worth the gamble. Keep your head up, my dear fellow. I'll be back anon."

Before I could ask him what he planned to do, he had taken a deep breath and plunged down into the depths. I felt a slight tremor run through my hands as the iron railing shook and then Holmes was back, wiping water from his eyes and smiling like a demon.

"The railings are rusted through at the bottom," said he. "Prolonged exposure to damp conditions and suitable temperatures has produced a pleasing amount of corrosion. There is a gap just large enough to pass the links of your shackles through, Watson."

"Just enough?" I queried.

"It will be a tight squeeze, I do not deny. You trust me, don't you?"

"Implicitly."

"Then take a deep breath and follow me."

I was a moment behind him. Even so, he had already begun to pull my hands down towards the gap he had discovered. Metal dragged against metal as he found the gap and proceeded to pull the chain through. Our progress seemed smooth enough. Then we came to an abrupt halt. The link had snagged on the rusted bar. We both pulled with all our might, but the trapped chain would not budge, either forwards or back. He gestured to me that he would return and headed back to the surface.

In my youth, I reckoned myself a decent swimmer. On one memorable occasion, I had managed to win a wager as to who amongst our group could stay submerged the longest. Near on three minutes my time had been, as I recall. Under similar circumstances, where I knew I could stand and draw breath any time I chose, no doubt I could replicate that feat. Now, with little more than forty seconds passed, I was struggling.

I was painfully aware of the throb of blood in my ears and the growing burning sensation in my throat and lungs. I tried to ignore it and think of other things, but there is nothing like knowing one is trapped to concentrate the mind. A single bubble slipped from between my lips, offering a temporary easing of the pressure. Just the one I promised myself, but my vow soon broke and after it came another and another. With my air exhausted, the reflex action of inhalation took over and water filled my mouth.

In the past, I have heard old sailors tell of how they have seen their lives replayed before their eyes whilst in the throes of drowning. My existence must have been singularly uneventful, for all I could think was what lay ahead rather than what was behind me. My store of medical knowledge was telling me that my throat had gone into a spasm to delay the entrance of water into my lungs, that my brain was being deprived of oxygen and that any minute now my heart would stop. In short, I was dying.

I do not know when I closed my eyes. Certainly I was only vaguely aware of a muffled clang as something hard struck the iron railings and reverberated up my arms. I was drifting, drowning in fact, and then I was travelling upwards until cold, musty air touched my skin. I had a hard smack across the face for my troubles and proceeded to wretch up what felt like a gallon of river water. I clung to the arms that had lifted me from the depths as though my very life depended on it and drank in breath after blessed breath.

"Really, my dear Watson," said he, regarding me with kindly amusement, "I do think you could have obliged us by holding your breath a little longer."

"How did you get me free?" I gasped.

"With the aid of Sergeant Bruce's truncheon and a good deal of brute force. Now, if you've had enough excitement for one day, I propose we leave before all our heads are under water."

I have never been happier to comply with one of Holmes's requests. He kept a guiding hand on my arm, for with my wrists still cuffed, my balance was compromised. Twice I stumbled, and twice he held me up until finally we were across the threshold and out into the open air beneath a cloud-troubled sky. As we scrambled up the steps, the crypt was plunged into darkness as the flood waters rose over the top of the marble tomb and extinguished the lantern.

"That was close," observed Lestrade when we had gathered in the waterlogged graveyard. "Whatever were you doing down there?"

"An unhappy series of events," said Holmes. "For now, Inspector, I have to ask how you would feel about arresting one of your own?"

His face assumed an expression from which I could only deduce he was most uncomfortable about that prospect.

Holmes smiled at his discomfort. "Rather, I should say someone _pretending_ to be one of your own, who is also a murderer and an army deserter. Does that make it easier for you, Lestrade?"

"Ah, well, that's different," said he. "Who are we talking about?"

"The man calling himself Inspector Samuel Rose."

"Inspector Rose?" echoed Sergeant Bruce. "My superior? You mean he's behind all this?"

"I will explain in due course," said Holmes. "At this present moment, our duty is to apprehend him, if he has not already taken to his heels and fled the district."

"What does this fellow look like?" asked Lestrade.

"He's dressed in furs and a tunic, and riding a black pony," I said. "The last I saw of him, he was digging the bones of one of his victims from the barrow in Long Meadow."

Lestrade accepted this information with equanimity. "I see. Well, they do say they do things differently in the country."

"We may yet find him at his grisly work," said Holmes. "Lestrade, Sergeant Bruce, we will go in pursuit of this villain. Perry, will you see that Dr Watson and Mr Bickerstaff make it safely back to the Dog and Duck? A blazing fire and something nourishing can do wonders for the beleaguered soul. Oh, and see if you can find anyone in this infernal place who can free him from those shackles."

The last time I had been dismissed so unceremoniously, as I thought, I had misread his intention and had taken offence. This time, I understood his reasoning sprang from concern and I concurred since I was in no fit state to go haring after him. All the same, I still felt that old urge that often overtakes me in the heat of the moment to see the business through to the end.

"Can I not be of assistance?" I asked.

"Two near drownings in one day is enough for any man," said he. "I appreciate the gesture, but we will manage. I will see you later, Watson. You are all right?"

"I will be."

He nodded and, as he turned to go, I called after him.

"Holmes, be careful. He has my gun. He is a dangerous man."

"So am I, Watson," he said, his eyes glittering like diamonds in the passing moonlight. "So am I."

Our group divided and departed in opposite directions, Holmes and the two officials out in the direction of the barrow, myself and my two companions towards the west end of the church and the path that led back to the village. I was sorry to see him go, although the prospect of dry clothes and a little medicinal brandy had greater appeal than spending more time than was necessary in the driving rain. I was cold, soaked through, my back ached, my throat felt raw and my wrists were sore. The best I could hope for now was a comfortable bed and the healing power of sleep.

As we came to the south-west corner of the church, I remember Peregrine Holmes saying something about a good blacksmith being worth his salt and then wandering off on a rambling explanation of the origins of that phrase. I was tired and not concentrating, so that the piece of fallen masonry that came into contact with my toe made me stumble.

I fell, just as a flash of light lit the darkness of the night. A shot sounded, something went whistling past my ear and the thin wail of someone in pain rose up on the chill night air. The next I knew, Peregrine Holmes had came crashing down on top of me, pinning me beneath him and declaring all the while that his end was nigh.

I suspected it was, and sooner than he anticipated, for standing above us, gun in hand, was the grim figure of Aloysius Stoke.

* * *

_**Oh, what? He's shot Perry now! Is there no end to his villainy? Come back immediately, Holmes, things have just taken a turn for the worse, again! **_

_**Continued in Chapter Thirteen: River Mist!**_

_**Reviews welcome and greatly appreciated!**_


	13. Chapter Thirteen

_**The Addleton Tragedy and the Mystery of the Ancient British Barrow**_

**Chapter Thirteen: ****River Mist**

Tackling deranged murderers in possession of firearms and a will to use them is best done upright and with both hands free. Unfortunately, I was neither. I was trapped with shackled hands beneath a fallen man with the flint-clad western wall of the church at my back and a self-confessed killer masquerading as a prehistoric ghost before me.

Expecting any help from my two companions was out of the question. At the sound of the gunshot, Bickerstaff had frozen as if turned to stone and still he stood with wide eyes staring at the person who had ambushed us. He was in better shape than Peregrine Holmes, whose laments at being shot had ceased abruptly with a strangled moan, after which he had become worryingly limp. Now he was a dead weight upon me, and I hoped that that phrase was not as applicable to his condition as it sounded.

My first instinct would normally have been to check his life signs and the nature of his injury. On this occasion, however, I had other more pressing issues. Aloysius Stoke, or Inspector Rose to give him his alias, had advanced from the cover of his hiding place and stood over me.

The black pony, Old Tippet, trailed unhappily behind him, its coat sodden with rain and its legs grimy with mud. It had been ridden hard by a man too heavy for its swayed back. Long marks patterned across its hide showed where a switch had been applied with some violence to drive the beast on when its spirits and energy had flagged.

Not that one would expect consideration or mercy from a man who had left his men to drown in a foreign river. The same hand that had turned his horse from the cries of the dying now pointed the unwavering barrel of a pistol directly at my head. I did not delude myself into thinking that he had any compunction against shooting an unarmed man, or that he would not use my own weapon to do it. Unfortunately, his intention was all too evident.

"You are a _very_ hard man to kill," said Stoke. "That bullet was meant for you, Doctor."

I spared a glance at the supine figure of Peregrine Holmes lying squarely across me. His face was deathly white – that being a trait he shared with his cousin, I was unsure if I was meant to infer a worsening of his condition or not – and his skin had taken on an unnatural sheen, again whether from a cold sweat or the accursed rain I could not tell. Had I not stumbled and fallen at that opportune moment, our positions could so easily have been reversed.

"Still, I am not too disappointed," Stoke continued. "It is not every man who can boast that they have killed the great Sherlock Holmes!"

The mistake was an easy one to make. The cousins shared enough of a likeness to allow a passing resemblance at a distance. In the dark and the rain, however, with their hair plastered down over their brows and both down to their shirt sleeves, it was much harder to tell them apart.

I did not dissuade Stoke from his error. If he believed he had killed my friend, then he would be off his guard. I wondered how much he had heard of our conversation from the cover of the west wall. Clearly not enough, for he had been of the opinion that Holmes and I were together when we had rounded the corner. He had made an assumption, the wrong one as it transpired. I hoped that would be to our advantage.

"People know what you have done, Stoke," I declared. "Killing us will make no difference. Your crimes have been uncovered."

"Ah, so you do remember me, Doctor. Well, it was only a matter of time."

"Holmes told me who you were and what you did. Your name alone means nothing to me."

"Then let me refresh your memory. When you were stitching my arm, you asked me why my regiment was called the 'Shiny Tenth' and I told you…"

"It was because of the elaborate cross belt you wore."

In one of those flashes of remembrance, a few words had conjured up in my mind the memory of the exchange, the surroundings in which it took place, even the uniform the young Hussar had worn, but still not the face of the man who had imparted that information. Stoke credited me with better recall than I had at my disposal.

"Why?" I asked numbly. "Why did you leave them?"

The smile that came to his lips would not have gone amiss on the face of a tiger about to deliver the fatal stroke to his captured prey.

"It was dangerous out there, Doctor. Someone was bound to get hurt sooner or later, and I was damn sure it wasn't going to be me. I saw my chance and took it. It was all too easy to melt into the background. They were never going to find me."

"They will come looking for you now. They know."

He shrugged lightly. "What of it? I vanished before. I can do so again. I have a fancy for South America. With the family fortune behind me, I should find a comfortable living for myself, don't you agree?"

"Run where you will, there is nowhere in this world that a murderer can hide forever. The hand of justice will find you one day."

"Ah, but it will have to catch me first. My old regiment has been looking for me for fifteen years and I am still at liberty, living right here in England, under their very noses." He cocked the gun and levelled it at a point between my eyes. "You should have died at Maiwand, Doctor. It would have saved us both a great deal of trouble. Not that it matters now of course, but one learns never to leave loose ends. I'm sorry, Doctor, but you do appreciate that I am going to have to kill you like I did your friend."

"Not so fast!" came a familiar voice.

I breathed again. Holmes had appeared from the direction we had come with Sergeant Bruce on his heels. Unlike us, he had not strolled blithely into danger. Stoke glanced uncertainly at the shotgun Bruce held and seemed unsure where to aim his pistol next.

"You're dead!" he spat. "I shot you!"

"That was my cousin and your mistake," said Holmes with apparent calmness.

I, however, who knew intimately the subtle shades of his character, recognised the deadly intent in those gleaming, steel-shot eyes. He meant to have his man, at what cost I did not care to say. Noticeably, he did not look in my direction, although I did not doubt that he had already taken in the situation with the merest of glances.

"You should have left while you had the chance, Stoke," he added.

Stoke's eyes had taken on that wild look that precedes rage. "No!" he yelled. "I'll kill you all before you lay one hand on me!"

"Put down the pistol, sir," said Bruce. "I don't want to have to shoot you, but I will."

Stoke looked desperately from one to the other of us. Then, I saw something in his eyes change as his gaze fell on me. I recognised it as the light of realisation. He started to laugh and his hand became firm on the pistol once again.

"You're bluffing," said he. "If that rifle is in order, why is the Doctor still cuffed? Why did you not blast him free of his shackles? Your weapon is useless. Shoot me, I dare you!"

What happened next came about so fast that I can scarce reconstruct the events in my mind. I remember Stoke's arm swivelling in my direction. I saw his finger squeeze the trigger. I braced myself for a shot that never came. There was a dull click, and then a shape, Holmes I assumed, flew past me. Stoke's arm was thrust upwards and the gun fell from his grasp accompanied by a cry of outrage and alarm that I thought the denizens of Hell must surely have been unleashed.

When the furore died down, I saw Holmes had Stoke pinioned beneath him, and had rendered him less violent with a blow that made the man's head rock. Lestrade had appeared, having come round from the north side of the church, and the pair had trapped Stoke between them.

It was over. Somehow I was still alive, and I did not quite know how.

By the time I had quite gathered my thoughts, Holmes had left his captive to the Inspector and had come over my side. "Thank God," said he, giving me the most cursory of visual examinations. "I thought he shot you."

I stared stupidly up at him, still not quite believing it myself. "He did. He pulled the trigger. The gun… it jammed."

"In that case, we must be grateful that you do not keep your firearms in good repair."

"But, Holmes, I do. That has never happened before."

"It looks right enough to me," said Sergeant Bruce, who had taken up the weapon and was examining it with interest. He pointed it skywards and a shot rang out. "My word, it's working now. You had a lucky escape there, Doctor."

"My good fortune then," said I. "Here, Holmes, lift your cousin off me. I have to see how seriously he is injured."

"Not too badly, I'll wager," said he, as he duly rolled the fellow to one side. "He has merely fainted, like Mr Bickerstaff over there. I can see him breathing."

"Even so, I should like to check him over. He was shot, you know."

"And no doubt made a great deal of fuss about it."

His idea of medical assistance and mine do not accord. To my consternation, he delivered a stinging slap to his cousin's face. Peregrine Holmes groaned and started to show signs of wakefulness.

"What did I tell you?" said he. "Wake up, Perry."

"Gently, Holmes, gently," I chided him. "We do not all possess your iron constitution. Mr Holmes, are you quite all right?"

"Am I dead?" came a dull murmur from the fallen man as his vision adjusted to the grey shapes of gravestones around us. "Is this Hell?"

"No, Perry," said Holmes with a snort of amusement. "This is Addleton, although your mistake is justifiable as I should say there is very little to choose between them."

I gave him a reproving glance and shook my head. "Mr Holmes, you are alive, but you have been shot. I must examine you."

He did not protest as I undid his waistcoat. A large irregular red stain showed on the white shirt beneath. With care, I peeled back the fabric to find a gash on his side where the bullet had grazed along his ribcage. He had been fortunate; another few inches to the left and it would have penetrated his lung.

I told him this and he brightened considerably. "Is it so very serious? Will I have a scar?"

"It will need tending," I replied. "And yes, you may have a scar."

This seemed to please him. "I have to have something to show Aunt Augusta as proof of my adventures, otherwise she'll never believe me," said he with a merry chuckle. "'He jests at scars, that never felt a wound', as the Bard has it."

"Perry, really you are—"

I never learnt what Holmes considered his cousin to be. Instead the night air was rent by a scream of animal fury. Aloysius Stoke had surged up, throwing a stunned Lestrade aside, who fell and dashed his head up against a gravestone. The next I knew, the villain was on my back and something sharp was digging into my jugular. As improvised weapons go, a piece of dislodged flint from the church's wall could do as much damage to a man's bare throat as any knife.

"Get back all of you!" Stoke commanded. "Or I will kill him, don't think I won't!"

Holmes was only an arm's length away. He could have reached out and grabbed the flint from Stoke. Whether he could have been fast enough, neither of us will ever know. What passed through those deep-set eyes was lost to shadow as he weighed the odds and rejected them as fast. His choice was to retreat, what I had already considered as the only decision he could make under the circumstances.

"Better," said Stoke, hauling me to my feet and dragging me several feet away from the others. "You shouldn't have come to Addleton, Mr Holmes. You shouldn't have meddled in matters that didn't concern you!"

"Everything concerns me, Mr Stoke," said he tightly, "as much as little seems to concern you." He took the pistol from Sergeant Bruce's hand and levelled it at him. "You seem to have forgotten that the advantage is ours."

The ragged tip of the flint was thrust firmly into my skin and I felt a hot dribble of blood start to course down my neck. "Could you kill me before I slit the good Doctor's throat?" he taunted. "Are you so sure, Mr Sherlock Holmes?"

"Is that how you murdered Lance Corporal Rose?"

"Nothing so crude. He obliged me by stoving his own head at the gold workings, like that old fool, Moncrieff. But what a man he was. He made me a believer in life after death. After he died, I had a life."

"It was his life, Stoke, not yours."

"But is this not his face?" Stoke giggled malevolently. "No one ever knew me, except that old witch, Goodenough. Even my own mother recoiled when she first saw me."

"And your father?"

The grip around my neck tightened. Holmes had evidently touched a sore point.

"He sent me to die!" Stoke raged. "Me, his only son, that he valued less than that… _that woman_! I would have killed him sooner, but for the will that would see me with nothing to my name. How much better to let him linger on in the knowledge that I have defied him. I shall endure, Mr Holmes, and you will oblige by throwing that gun to me."

Holmes remained where he was, the pistol steadfast in its aim. "Release Dr Watson," he ordered. "Then we shall see."

"And lose my advantage?" He shrank behind me, using me as his shield. "You must think me a fool. The gun, Mr Holmes, for your friend's life. Those are my terms."

I had little faith that Stoke would keep his word. Once he had the gun, he would have the means to kill us all, out of sheer spite. My life, which he would take in any case, when so many were at stake, hardly seemed a fair exchange at all.

I tried to speak my thoughts aloud, only to have the flint jabbed deeper into my neck. I was left trying to communicate with my eyes, hoping that Holmes saw that I gave him my unreserved support for what he must do, the only thing he could do under the circumstances. I thought I perceived an answering look, although it could have been nothing more than a reaction against the stinging raindrops that fell steady between us.

Instead, he glanced away and began to lower his arm. Just when I thought we were all lost, the hand tightened and a fierce light came into his dulled eyes. There was a flash and crack of gun fire. Something whipped through my hair, leaving a parting as it went. Behind me, Stoke yelped and I was free. I darted away, turning to find him with his hand clasped to his ear and blood wending its way down the side of his face.

Like a cornered, wounded animal, he was at his most dangerous. Losing one victim, I saw his determination that he should not die alone, that this night he would take someone with him. But it was not to me that his rage turned. Holmes barely had time to get out of the way of the flint's arc as Stoke hurled it at him. Not fast enough, for the sharp edge sliced down the back of his hand, making him drop the gun.

In the confusion, Stoke saw his chance for escape. He ran for the pony, leapt on its back and drove his heels into its side. With a squeal, the pony wheeled and man and beast started for the bridge. Holmes waved aside my concerns for his bleeding hand and snatched up the pistol in his left. His shots went wild as the pony cleared the crumbling churchyard wall at a gallop and scampered away into the night.

Along with Lestrade and Sergeant Bruce, we hurried through the lynch gate in pursuit, but our quarry was well away.

"Confound it all!" Holmes cursed bitterly. "Lestrade, how could you have been so careless as to let him fool you like that! Why the blazes didn't you bring your pistol?"

"Well, the message I received didn't say anything about half-crazed country squires gallivanting across the countryside intent on murdering the local villagers," said he defensively. "When I looked the place up on the map and saw it was in the middle of nowhere, I thought we were in for nothing more exciting than a spot of sheep thievery. By heavens, Mr Holmes, it's not even on the main line. I had a devil of job getting transport here from Barbury."

"Be that as it may, you should know by now, Inspector, that I would never draw you away from London for something so trivial." Holmes sighed with obvious frustration and annoyance. "We had him in our grasp. That he should escape now is most unsatisfactory!"

"He won't get far," said Lestrade with confidence. "A wire to London will get the wheels in motion."

"Not fast enough, I fear. You'll have to go to Barbury to send it, by which time Stoke will miles away. You weren't injured, were you, Watson?"

The question was casual enough, slotted in amongst other concerns, as though nothing particularly remarkable had just occurred. That he had placed a shot with such accuracy as to scrape the side of my head and reach its mark seemed to have escaped his notice, even if everyone else was still in awe. I reassured him that, thanks to his skill, I would live to fight another day.

"Shooting one's friends is never advisable," he admitted. "It creates such bad feeling. But I am afraid that in this case it was necessary. I could not countenance letting him have the gun."

"I understand, Holmes, and I agree. As for Stoke—"

"Good heavens!" cried Sergeant Bruce. "What the devil is that?"

I followed the direction of his gaze and his pointing finger. Through the driving rain, I could make out the pony and its rider hurtling up the cobbled slope of the bridge. Ahead of them, at its very crest, was a gathering patch of mist that seemed to be coalescing and taking greater form and substance.

I watched, hardly daring to believe my eyes, as a shape emerged, distinctly like the figure in the grey dress and bonnet that I had followed earlier across Long Meadow. Whatever this apparition was, it brought the pony to a shuddering halt.

It squealed with terror, the whites of its eyes gleaming in the darkness, and threw its head wildly, trying to throw the rider from its back. Stoke tried to keep his balance as his mount slipped and skidded on the wet stones until finally it found purchase and reared up, pawing the air with its front legs.

One misjudged step further back, and man and beast somersaulted over the parapet, both flailing frantically as they tumbled into the raging river below. The water engulfed them and they vanished into its churning heart until a moment later both their heads broke the surface again. The fierce current carried them along, sending great waves rushing over their heads and buffeting them with fallen branches from upstream.

The horror of what I was witnessing made me start forward, but Holmes's hand on my arm held me back. "Don't be precipitate, Watson!" he cried. "If you venture out there, you will surely be swept away."

"We can't just leave him, Holmes."

He shook his head. "I'm afraid it is already too late."

I looked to where the frightened pony was struggling in the midst of the swollen river, plunging through the torrent in an effort to reach dry land. In its panic, the front hooves smote Stoke a savage blow to the head. His cries stopped abruptly as he was battered beneath the surface.

The pony continued towards the furthermost bank, its trailing reins snagging around its rider's neck and dragging him along behind. Safe at last, Old Tippet shook himself and stood shivering miserably, while the body of Aloysius Stoke bobbed lifeless in the shallows. On the bridge, the mist had dissipated, leaving only driving rain and the memory of its presence.

We four stood silent for what felt like the longest time, stilled by the events we had seen. It was Lestrade who finally found his voice to put into the words the very thing no doubt all of us were thinking.

"What the devil was that on the bridge?" he asked. "It looked like… _a woman_."

"River mist," said Holmes, although I noticed the unexpected edge in his voice. "Unless you believe in ghosts?"

"Well, no."

"Good. Then it was river mist, quite common in these conditions."

"But, Holmes," I protested, "we all saw—"

"My dear Watson," said he wearily. "We have enough trouble with the living. Leave the dead to their rest." With that, he turned to Lestrade and Bruce. "As to the fate of your prisoner, I fear you have been denied the pleasure of seeing this cold-hearted villain stand trial."

"Only the hangman will be disappointed by this night's work, Mr Holmes," said Bruce. "Either way, it looks to me like justice has been done. Stoke will have to answer for his crimes in a higher court now."

Holmes smiled weakly. "My thoughts exactly, Sergeant. My thoughts exactly."

* * *

_**Ghost or river mist? That decision I leave up to you… **_

_**Continued Chapter Fourteen: Cold Comfort at Addleton!**_

_**Reviews welcome and greatly appreciated!**_


	14. Chapter Fourteen

_**The Addleton Tragedy and the Mystery of the Ancient British Barrow**_

**Chapter Fourteen: Cold Comfort**** at Addleton**

We made for a sorry sight as we wended our way back to the Dog and Duck that blustery night. I had gone ahead with Peregrine Holmes and Mr Bickerstaff, leaving Holmes and Sergeant Bruce to haul Aloysius Stoke ashore, while Lestrade directed from the safety of the bank.

At the time, I did not query the Inspector's reluctance to enter the water, since Holmes seemed to have energy enough on that occasion for all of them and had set about the task with a sense of urgency, lest, as I imagined, the body be carried away. Later, however, Lestrade would confide that he had had a nasty experience once with a corpse that had had too long to wallow in its own juices in a quiet backwater of the Thames. He had grimaced as he had glanced down at his shoes, leaving me in no doubt as to the nature of his unfortunate encounter.

With the pony commandeered for the transportation of the body, I was left to get the walking wounded back to Addleton as best I could. Peregrine Holmes tried to put a brave face on his condition, but failed. No doubt Holmes would have disapproved. In a failing he shared with the rest of the population, his cousin felt his pain keenly and by the time we arrived at the tavern, his tortured expression told eloquently of his suffering.

Mr Bickerstaff was quite another matter. He had quite recovered his wits after passing out in the graveyard, but he was still deeply shaken by the experience. He was too quiet for my liking and I was concerned that the strain on his system was liable to produce delayed symptoms.

Even my attempt to lighten his mood by suggesting that this was not quite what he had expected from life as a research assistant to a professor of archaeology failed to raise the trace of a smile. Instead he had muttered that if this was going to happen on a regular basis, then he intended retraining as an engineer. I decided not to tell him about the unfortunate experience of Victor Hatherley and let the matter drop.

What he needed – what we all needed in fact – was warmth, rest and sustenance. Whether we would find it at the inn was another matter. What with the state of us and the puddles we were wont to leave whenever we stopped in one place for too long, the landlords of the lowest drinking dens in London would have been well within their rights to turn us away.

Not so Mrs Lacey. For all her questionable practices in the kitchen, her kindness to her weary and sodden guests that night stands out in my mind as the one redeeming feature of that god-forsaken village. No sooner had we entered, shivering and dripping all over her polished wooden floor, than she had had a fire banked up and brandy to go round.

Several of the locals seemed to find amusement in our plight, less so when we gave a hasty account of our experiences and exposed the viper that had nestled among them. They became rather more amenable after that and started on that old tale of how they had always maintained there was something amiss with Inspector Rose. Hindsight, as they say, is a wonderful thing.

While Mrs Lacey bustled around fetching towels, I sent Bickerstaff up to his room to find dry clothes and asked for someone to fetch the village's only, and hitherto noticeably absent, doctor. A child who had been waiting for a jug to be filled with beer duly obliged and a short time later he was back, bearing the doctor's medical bag. Dr Montague could not come himself, he explained, on account of a griping in his bowels, but as he had heard a fellow medico was already in attendance, I was welcome to use his supplies.

As gestures went, I would have been more impressed by a personal appearance. My eyes stung from tiredness and I had limited movement of my hands. The first problem I had to ignore; the second was resolved sooner than I had expected.

Since Holmes had been out of bullets and Mrs Lacey had no tools we could use, word went out for the blacksmith. A little later, as I lingered before the fire, the heat warming the metal enough to make them uncomfortable to the touch, I was accosted by a large man with calloused hands and a belligerent attitude.

He had been having his dinner, I was told, when a boy came to tell him that some fool had got himself trapped in an old set of shackles and could not get free. I had to own up that I was person in question, whereupon he produced a chisel and a huge hammer. A good many masterly blows later, I was finally free and my wrists were thoroughly bruised.

In all honesty, I would have been more than happy to climb into my bed and stay there until daybreak. Given the events of the past few hours, however, I doubted whether my rest would be a peaceful one. To further burden my conscience, Peregrine Holmes declared that he would trust no other with his sore ribs, especially in a place where the drinking supply was regularly seasoned by the village dead. That was a sentiment with which I could quite sympathise. I relented and forced myself to the weary task.

I had not the best materials at hand. I suspected it had been some time since Dr Montague had replenished or refreshed his supplies. The bottles were universally old, some were missing their labels, which had collected in the bottom of the bag in a jumble of crisp, brown paper slips, and at least one had what looked suspiciously like mould growing around the cork. One vial had developed a crack, from which the contents had proceeded to leak. As a worrying smell of bitter almonds accompanied the stain on a greying roll of bandages to be found, I decided to look elsewhere for a dressing.

No sooner had I described my predicament to Mrs Lacey than had she swept a dusty bottle from a shelf and drawn the cork with her teeth. To my consternation, and Peregrine Holmes's evident alarm, she declared that her old ma had sworn by the healing properties of gin and then had proceeded to pour the contents over his wound.

It was crude but effective. Never have I heard a man howl so loudly or for so long. Mrs Lacey, however, was pleased with her work and said that she would do her best to find some bandages for the poor man. When his flesh had stopped smarting from its exposure to the astringent effects of the alcohol, Peregrine Holmes expressed his intention to plant himself in his study and never stray so far from home again.

"Not that it hasn't been an experience, you understand," he explained at length. "One may learn from even the most distressing of situations. All the same, I do not have the constitution for such a life. One imagines that the people involved in these situations one reads about must have reserves they are able to call upon in a crisis. I, however, find myself decidedly lacking in that respect and must resign myself to a quieter life."

I let him ramble, feeling too spent for much in the way of conversation. Mrs Lacey duly returned with a moderately clean sheet which she had shredded it into manageable strips. I set about dressing the wound and Peregrine Holmes continued in his own fashion.

"That spirit of adventure that sees a man want to head out into the jungle or tackle armed villains has always perplexed me," said he. "However, perhaps I understand a little better now why my cousin was insistent on following such a course against all advice to the contrary."

I could not help myself. "The family did not approve?"

"In no small part. It is hardly the profession of a gentleman." He hesitated and a flush spread across his cheeks. "Oh, I did not mean to cast any slur on you, Dr Watson. I have the deepest admiration for you, sir. I know I would not be quite so composed had I been through half of what you have endured this night."

"It isn't usually like this," I replied, feeling somewhat defensive. "This has been…" I struggled to find the right word. "Well, it's been more than a little trying."

"Trying, you say," said he severely. "Positively lethal, I should have called it. It comes as no surprise that Sherlock should risk all on behalf of other people, but I had not realised he was quite so lost as to expose his acquaintances to untold danger."

"In all fairness, he did tell me to leave, even if he was somewhat vague about his reason."

"And yet you returned, sir." He was gazing at me keenly. "Why?"

"Because I thought he might be in danger."

He accepted this statement with a thoughtful nod. "I could never envisage any of my brothers being so loyal in my defence," said he wistfully. "It is a poor family indeed who has to look for nobility of spirit in kith rather than kin."

"Holmes stood by you."

"Yes, but then he's—" He paused and gave a tight smile. "He's different, isn't he? He does not lack that courage that seems to elude the rest of us."

I had expended a good deal of time and energy over the past few days being annoyed and saddened in turn by Holmes's apparent reluctance to trust me with the most intimate details of his life. Now, the truth was being dangled before me like a carrot to tempt a donkey and I had no appetite for it.

I did not want to know; at least I did not want to hear it from Peregrine Holmes.

If, at some later date, Holmes wished to tell me, that was another matter. Until then, I had no wish to go behind his back. I flattered myself that an issue of trust was at stake. Having come so far, I was not about to fall at the final hurdle.

The silence and Peregrine Holmes's expectant gaze informed me that he was waiting for a response and I gathered it would be no great task to draw the information from him. In an effort to frame a polite but firm declination, I dallied too long.

The sudden murmur of voices made me start and turn to see Holmes coming through the door. I caught his eye and I fear he read my struggle with my conscience all too plainly. I imagined he would assume my guilt about something; but then as Holmes is fond of telling me, reliance on guesswork is a shocking habit. I hoped I would be granted the benefit of the doubt.

"Well," said he, coming over to join us. "How are your patients, Doctor?"

There was nothing I could deduce about his humour from the unemotional tone of his voice, not that that was unusual.

"They'll live," I told him. "Your cousin was lucky."

I would not say that Holmes exactly glowered at him, but the look he bestowed upon his cousin was anything but benevolent.

Peregrine Holmes visibly squirmed. "We were just talking about you, Sherlock."

"Were you?" Holmes said coolly. "I'm glad to hear you were putting your time to profitable use. We were not altogether idle either."

He gestured vaguely to the open door, through which I could see Lestrade in conversation with Sergeant Bruce. Orders were passing from one rank to another, which resulted in Bruce leading the pony away with its grisly burden. His work done, Lestrade entered and came straight over the fire, dropping a dripping sack as he did so.

"My word, it's parky out there," said he, rubbing his cold hands before the blaze. "Any chance of a nip of that brandy to warm the old cockles?"

I passed him what was left in my own glass while I finished my ministrations. Peregrine Holmes let out a loud groan as the bandages tightened around his injured side and all eyes at the bar turned in our direction yet again. Holmes sighed and Lestrade grinned.

"Cousin, eh?" remarked the Inspector. "Any more like him at home, Mr Holmes?"

"Unfortunately, yes," said he. "But none like me, if that's what you're asking."

"Well, that's a comfort. One of you is quite enough."

"Kind of you to say so, Lestrade. Now, if you'll excuse me."

He left, I assumed, to find a dry change of clothes. We three huddled around the fire and quietly steamed before I finally put to the Inspector the question that had been on the tip of my tongue since he had entered with his mysterious bundle.

"Mr Holmes fished that out of the river," he explained. "Waded under the bridge to retrieve it too. We had a nasty surprise when we had a look inside."

He delved into the bag and came up bearing the skull of the young woman who had been buried in the barrow.

"Poor devil," said he. "I reckon Stoke threw her in hoping the bones would be washed away right before he staged that ambush at the church. From the tracks, it looked like he'd crossed the bridge and then doubled back. It's my opinion he'd seen us coming to your rescue and thought he'd return to finish the job."

He said it with great authority, although I detected Holmes's hand in the reconstruction of the events as described. I did not contradict him. Credit would go where it was deserved in due course of time.

For the moment, Lestrade was lost in contemplation like a latter day Hamlet with his Yorick.

"Who do you think she was?" he mused.

"That is what we shall endeavour to discover," came Holmes's imperious tones from behind us. "And this very night."

We three bedraggled souls surveyed him, as enviably prim as ever, as he positioned himself before the fire and took the lion's share of the warmth. In the short time he had been gone, he had changed, washed the grime from his face and rubbed a cloth over his shoes. He had even combed his hair.

"Mrs Lacey said she wants to see you out of those wet clothes, Watson," he informed me.

Lestrade's eyebrows rose as he chuckled. "I think I could take to country life."

"It's not what you think," said I wearily.

"Indeed no," said Holmes. "I believe she has managed to find you something dry to wear. If I were you, I would not keep the lady waiting. I should not rate the chances very highly of any man who thought to deny her wishes."

I rose, removing several items from my pockets as I did so. My hand closed around the gold locket I had found in the barrow and I duly handed it over to Holmes.

He considered the portraits within. "The gentleman is Lord Stoke. There is something of the son about the eyes. This woman, however, presents a greater challenge. Her style of dress is continental, as is the manner in which she has dressed her hair."

"Is she the woman in the barrow?" Lestrade asked.

"That I doubt. Both she and the gentleman are young, which places these portraits mid-century. If the woman Stoke killed was no more than five-and-twenty, then she and the woman in the locket cannot be one and the same. Unless…" His eyes had grown hard and bright as was his custom when his concentration was intense. "Perhaps a daughter? Why else would she carry such a locket unless the people were known to her?"

"An illegitimate child, you think, Sherlock?" asked his cousin.

Holmes was too intent on his thoughts to answer immediately. "I do believe," said he finally, "that this case runs deeper than I had at first imagined. I should have realised when Stoke said that his father had valued him less than a woman. Why kill her unless she posed a threat? What if she was a _legitimate_ child? Yes, yes, that makes more sense."

I frowned. "Are you saying that Lord Stoke married this woman, they had a child and then he left her to marry Lady Maud? Wouldn't that be bigamy?"

"Only if the first marriage was never annulled. If it was, then this lady still might reasonably expect to be favoured in her father's will. If not, then at a stroke this daughter's existence would have thrown into doubt the legitimacy of Aloysius Stoke and his hitherto unassailable claim on his father's fortune." He snapped his hand shut and the gold chain dangled between his fingers as he pressed his fist to his lips in thought. "_Delicta maiorum immeritus lues_, as Horace has it. A poisoned chalice indeed to hand to a son who reacted according to his nature, with violence and murder!"

"A sordid tale, if it's true," said Lestrade. "Lord Stoke will have to deny or confirm your theories, Mr Holmes."

"If he is able, which I doubt," said Holmes. "In either case, Lady Maud surely will."

"You intend to question them now?" I asked. "When their son has just died?"

"They have known of murder and said nothing. It is high time the truth was known. As to their reactions, to the father, he was dead already. To the mother…" He tailed off into silence. "Well, we shall see."

"Do you want me to come with you?" I offered.

"No, my dear fellow, stay and recover your spirits. I will inform you of all when I return. Besides, it would be ungallant of me to drag you away from the dubious charms of Mrs Lacey."

He nodded to where she had appeared and was now beckoning to me. We parted, Holmes and Lestrade to Addleton House, and me upstairs to change.

Mrs Lacey had been as good as her word, and had laid out for me a clean shirt, a pair of Sergeant Bruce's trousers – I thought it best not to ask how she had come by them – and an old dressing gown. This attire would have raised a few eyebrows had I been anywhere but a remote country tavern and the atmosphere fairly alive with the news of the night's events. Weary of their questions, I found myself a quiet chair by the fire and soon found myself drifting off.

I do not know how long I slept, except that some time later I was awoken by a soft voice calling my name and a hand that shook me firmly by the shoulder. Holmes had returned and from his demeanour I could tell that the conclusion of the case had not been satisfactory. The bluish circles had hung under his eyes were turning black and the inelegant manner in which he slumped into the fireside chair opposite spoke of the depression that had settled over his soul.

"My apologies for waking you, Watson," said he, "but I thought you would care to know of the events that passed at Addleton House."

"Indeed, I would. Pray, tell me all."

"We are in blood stepped in so far in this business," he mused, his gaze directed at the hearth. "It was as I feared, Watson. The dead girl's name was Metje, the only child of Lord Stoke's first marriage. He had wed her mother in his youth whilst travelling on the Continent. The match was ill-starred – she was poor, and he was heir to a country estate and the titles that went with it. The family persuaded him with threats to give her up in favour of a more advantageous match. She, being Catholic, would never agree to a divorce, but out of love and regard which he did not deserve vowed to keep their marriage a secret. Stoke abandoned her and returned to England to marry Lady Maud bigamously. He knew nothing of the child until she came to Addleton House, seeking his help after her mother died."

"Good heavens," said I. "Lord Stoke must have been taken aback by her sudden appearance."

"On the contrary, he was overjoyed. He welcomed this unexpected child with open arms, much to the alarm of Lady Maud. It seems he did not fear the resulting scandal as much as his family. Indeed, his actions seem to indicate that he courted it. He spoke of making all known and favouring this daughter as a legitimate heir. From all accounts, his son was considered a bad lot: moving between various schools, getting into scrapes at university, and generally falling far short of his father's expectations. He had not anticipated that that rebellious streak would run to murder, however. The mother sent news to the son, and he to Addleton House came with the intention of silencing this pretender."

"He told me he had killed her. He said he had suffocated her."

Holmes nodded. "One step along a long and deadly road that would claim the lives of many. The father endeavoured to conceal his son's actions, whilst finding a punishment to fit the crime. An army commission seemed to fit that bill. If he returned with honours, then all would be forgiven. Should he die in battle, then was justice seen to have been done. Again, he reckoned without his son's nature. The news of his dishonour broke what little grip Lord Stoke retained on his sanity, but not before he disowned the boy in his will."

"Was it legal in that case? Could it not have been challenged on the grounds that Lord Stoke was not of sound mind?"

"No doubt, but then Aloysius Stoke would have had to come forward to present such a challenge. Given the charge against him, it was a risk he could not take. Hence this elaborate charade with false identities and Lady Maud's systematic selling of the family lands. On the husband's death, she would have retained her dowry, whilst her son escaped abroad with what they considered to be his rightful inheritance. But for the digging up of the barrow, they might have brought their plan to fruition."

"But, why, if they knew the girl was buried there, did Lady Maud sell Long Meadow? Surely it would have been safer to have retained it to the last."

"You remember that she told us that Mr Pearce had led her to believe that his only interest in the field was for pasture. He had his own reasons for deceiving her, seeing as how he believed that the contents of the barrow were worthy of Croesus. The news caused the further deterioration of Lord Stoke's health because only he knew where he had buried his daughter's body. Imagine their dismay when he finally told them the secret he had harboured for so long."

"_He_ had buried her in the barrow?"

"Oh, yes. Although he could not publicly admit her death, he did endeavour to give her some modicum of dignity. I dare say he saw it as no lack of respect to bury her in a tomb alongside some ancient king, and on the very side overlooking Addleton House too. All those years that his wife looked out across Long Meadow, she did not know she was looking at the murdered girl's grave."

He sighed and rubbed his brow.

"The rest you know. Stoke had returned, older and disfigured and living a lie as an old soldier. He was little known in Addleton or Barbury in his youth, and given the remoteness of these places, it was easy enough for his parents to spread the news of his death. No one had cause to associate Inspector Rose with Stoke. Should anyone happen to recognise him, like Mrs Goodenough, it was easy enough to rid himself of the troublesome party and attribute the death to an accident in his capacity as inspector of police."

"Then why make the Professor's death appear as murder?" I asked.

"The digging at the barrow had to be stopped. These were not people who could simply be killed without questions being asked. At first, he tried to scare them away with straw figures and appearances as a prehistoric ghost. Then, when they began to dig in the very place where the girl was buried, his activities took on a more sinister aspect. The placing of the severed goat's head drove some away but not all. He had to resort to more drastic means after that."

I nodded, remembering Stoke's words. "He told me he meant to kill the Professor that night and would have done so had he not died accidentally."

"That I do not doubt for an instant," said Holmes. "After that, all he had to do was to dress the scene, blame one of the Professor's associates for the killing and the digging would be stopped. Whether the charge stood or not, it mattered little. Either way, it would give him time to retrieve the body from the barrow."

"But why did he not do that before?"

"Because there was always someone on guard, Watson. The Professor was sleeping there, remember. Leaving a straw figure is one thing; digging up a barrow is quite another. After the Professor's death, he thought he was safe for a time. Digging would be halted and he could retrieve the bones at his leisure when attention had moved away from the barrow. He had reckoned, however, without me."

His eyes had taken on that particular gleam I knew so well.

"It was pure chance that Perry was a member of the dig. Had it been some other unfortunate, the case may well have made it all the way to the assizes. I forced Stoke's hand, by first denouncing the ludicrous claim of murder and then by suggesting that the excavation recommence. He had to act out of self-preservation."

"And risked the lives of both Mr Bickerstaff and your cousin in so doing," I reminded him.

Holmes shook his head. "They were safe enough during the hours of daylight while the villagers were active. I told them to be long gone before dusk. I had not anticipated that the rain would move in so swiftly, which of course gave Stoke the perfect opportunity to strike. That I was delayed did not help our cause either." His eyes met mine. "As for you, Watson, well, the further you were removed from this place and Stoke's reach, the better, as you subsequently discovered to your cost."

With his tale told, he gave a half-hearted wave of his hand, as if to indicate that he had lost interest in the business. For my own part, I was still burning with curiosity.

"Lady Maud told you this?" I asked. "Willingly?"

Holmes regarded me for a long moment before pointedly looking away. "No, Watson, she did not. Most of this information came from Lord Stoke, from a document we found in a secret compartment of his desk, signed and dated some seventeen years before. The rest I have been able to deduce."

"_You_ found this document? Why ever were you looking for it in the first place?"

"Because Lord Stoke indicated that it was there."

There was something about this business that either I was missing or Holmes, as usual, was keeping close to his chest.

"Granted, its location was conveyed by the merest movement of his eyes," said he absently. "A man so close to death may be forgiven for a lack of coherence. It took a devil of a time to find what we were looking for; these old Chippendale pieces are artfully constructed. For the concealment of such a document from his family, Lord Stoke chose well."

"Poor man," said I. "He is nearing his last, then?"

"He has now crossed that divide, Watson, though considerably before his time, I should say. He may well have had a few years more had not his wife poisoned him."

I stared. Holmes continued.

"Before poisoning herself, I should add. Oh, and before leaving me this."

He delved into his pocket and drew out a letter, which he tossed across to me.

"You may well ask from whom Aloysius Stoke derived his vicious nature. On the evidence of that, we may be fairly certain that it came from the maternal side of the family."

"Lady Maud is dead?" I asked, aghast.

Holmes nodded. "The deed was done before our arrival. Lord Stoke followed a few minutes later, not before giving me a subtle hint as to the document that could provide the final answers to this mystery. In all honesty, I had thought it might happen that way."

"You did?"

"Lestrade had instructed Sergeant Bruce to find a suitable resting place for Stoke's remains. Well, it was either Mrs Lacey's pantry or Addleton House. Naturally, he chose the latter and then made the mistake of allowing Lady Maud out of his sight after bringing such news. It was time enough for her to devise her own means of escape. Poison for the husband who had betrayed both herself and her son, and poison for herself now that her child was dead, the only thing as she told us that mattered. And that," he gestured to the letter, "she left for me."

I beheld the envelope with some caution. "Should I be on my guard?" I inquired.

"Not unless you believe words are able to cause physical harm." He yawned. "Now, if you will excuse me, this has been a long night. I shall snatch a few hours' sleep and then we will leave on the first train out of Addleton." He rose and started towards the stairs. "I believe I am so tired that I could even sleep through one of Perry's nightly choruses!"

He left, and with grave misgivings I opened the envelope and read the contents. Addressed to my friend, the message was short and succinct.

"_As to the crimes for which you would have me stand accused_," it read, "_I declare that I am guilty of no wrong, save that of a mother's love for her son. As for you, Mr Sherlock Holmes, this is my only prayer: that you may be long for death, but be unable to die._"

I replaced the letter in its envelope, feeling heartily sick to the pit of my stomach. Our departure from Addleton could not now come soon enough.

* * *

_**Don't worry, Dr Watson. You'll be leaving very shortly and heading home to Baker Street for the final chapter of the Addleton Tragedy. **_

_**Concluded in Chapter Fifteen: Homeward Bound!**_

_**Reviews welcome and greatly appreciated!**_


	15. Chapter Fifteen

_**The Addleton Tragedy and the Mystery of the Ancient British Barrow**_

**Chapter Fifteen: Homeward Bound**

By ten the next morning, we were ready to leave Addleton. Lestrade was staying out of necessity, much to his alleged chagrin. With so many dead and explanations needed for each of them, it was hardly a task to be left to the local constabulary. The Divisional Chief Inspector was also expected, he informed us with considerable relish. As the only senior man on the scene and having all the answers at his disposal, the credit would go naturally to Lestrade. Not that we begrudged him that; indeed, we were more than happy to be leaving him to his unenviable task.

To the end, our departure was fraught with difficulties. The river had continued to rise in the night and the branch line to Addleton was a foot underwater. We could have waited for it to clear, but we were all adamant on leaving without delay. This had meant a journey to Barbury, made in a rickety, uncovered farm wagon drawn by the slowest Shire horse it has ever been my misfortune to encounter. We arrived at our destination wet and covered in chicken feathers, cheered only the knowledge that every mile from Addleton was a mile closer to home.

By now, we were looking enough like the locals to not warrant passing stares. Mrs Lacey had tried her best, but my clothes still had a coating of grime and that faint whiff of the river coupled with the smell of singeing from being left too close to the fire. My shirt would never be white again and my tie had developed stains that I had not noticed previously. My appearance was going to cause a few raised eyebrows when we alighted in London.

Holmes and I were indeed homeward bound, but the others were destined for other parts. A good night's sleep had restored Mr Simon Bickerstaff to his old self, and he was already expressing a desire to continue his mentor's work. For now, his destination was Oxford. One day, so he told us, he would return to Addleton to see if the barrow had been truly robbed out. He owed it, he said, to Professor Moncrieff. The results, whether disappointing or not, would be published as a fitting memorial to the man.

His intention was a sound one, but he would not be accompanied again by the other members of the excavation party. Mr Peter Travers and Mr Joseph Malpas would be returning to Shrewsbury and Birmingham respectively, where they declared unanimously they would be confining their research to rather less perilous fields. Even though they had spent the majority of their time in the last few days locked in their room, they had heard enough of our adventures to last them a lifetime. Mr Travers went so far as to opine that it had put him off country life for good.

I was sorrier to be saying farewell to Peregrine Holmes, returning to his duties on his aunt's country estate. Looking at him now, sat as he was awkwardly in the corner of the station waiting room, trying to engage his taciturn cousin in conversation without much success, I wondered if the differences between them were not as great as Holmes would have me believe.

He said he lacked courage, yet it had taken no small measure of nerve to remain with us in a flooding crypt. He might not match his cousin in the field of observation and deduction, but one suspected that Peregrine Holmes had equal merits in other areas, whatever Holmes might say. This deriding of each other's abilities seemed to be a family trait, but where Peregrine Holmes somewhat moderated his view of his cousin, the gesture was not reciprocated.

They were never going to be close, but I could have wished for a more cordial parting than the one that took place on that rain-soaked platform.

"Well, it's been an experience, cousin," said Peregrine Holmes, as we stood beneath the station canopy while we waited for his train to arrive.

"It's been perfectly ghastly, Perry, and you know it," said Holmes tersely. "I should avoid decamping to remote parts of the country in the future if I were you. You have always had a propensity for getting yourself into the most appalling scrapes, as this misadventure has proved conclusively."

"That is true enough," he replied. "After these regrettable events, I have resolved to confine my attentions to my immediate locality. Strangely enough, before I left home, there was some talk of an ancient trackway discovered not fifteen miles from the Hall. At the time, Aunt Augusta said it was more in my line of expertise."

"Then it was a pity that you chose not to listen to her."

"Speaking of that dear lady, will you be venturing up to our part of the world this year? It has been too long since you visited, Sherlock, and I know Augusta would be delighted to see you. Oh, and, of course, you too, Dr Watson. You would be very welcome."

"Kind of you, Perry, but I doubt we would be able to take up your offer in any case," Holmes interjected before I had a chance to reply. "Affairs in London occupy most of our time, you understand. Ah, I see your train approaching."

"And so we must part," said his cousin. "Dr Watson, it has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir, albeit under less propitious circumstances than one would have preferred."

"It has indeed," said I, shaking his hand.

"I cannot say how deeply indebted I am to you both for extracting me from the mire of my own folly and the machinations of others. Words cannot express my gratitude."

"Then do not attempt to do so, but confine your sentiments to farewell," said Holmes. "And be quick about it, unless you wish to remain in this charming part of Wiltshire for another night."

The train had rolled in, hissing and steaming, and doors banged open as passengers disembarked. Peregrine Holmes installed himself in a compartment with two elderly clergymen, the whistle blew and the engine let out a mournful sigh as it continued with journey northwards.

As it rolled away, I saw the beginnings of that familiar languor begin to settle about my friend's demeanour that usually accompanied the conclusion of a case. He said nothing, but I sensed that he wished for the company of his own thoughts and obliged him with my silence.

Our own London-bound train pulled in shortly afterwards and we managed to find an empty compartment. I saw the last of Barbury through a rain-splattered window and the few residences that lay on its outskirts passed by without comment from either of us.

Long after Holmes had closed his eyes and his breathing had deepened into the regular rhythm of sleep, I continued to watch the changing patterns of the countryside as one county slipped into another and the landscape changed to undulating hills and forested vales. As we passed Reading, my thoughts turned to home and I tried to put Addleton out of my mind. There would be other cases, perhaps even a client awaiting our return at this present moment. The memory would fade, given time.

As too, I fervently hoped, would the residue of disquiet that had yet to leave me. If it is possible to be touched by the wickedness of others, then I felt most certainly that I had been polluted by the festering decay of Addleton, which had worked its ills upon me until my very nature had been affected.

Reflecting on the past few days, I acknowledged that I had been testy and out of sorts. I had given voice to all manner of rash accusations, things that would have better been left unsaid and could not now be taken back. I could not speak for Holmes, but I knew that I bitterly regretted our altercation on the journey to Addleton.

Malign influence alone could not account for it. Had we resolved our differences sooner, we would not have come to the juncture where we had lost faith in each other, he in my dependability and me in his motives. Given the events that followed, I trusted that the damage was not irreparable. How painful and enduring the memory would prove, however, would depend on how willing we were to forgive the past.

If we had learnt anything from our time in Addleton, however, it was that the past is never as distant as one imagines. Old sins cast long shadows, as the saying has it, and we had seen how its wages had been death, for innocent and guilty alike. Even from beyond the grave, it reached out and tainted us still.

Time would tell whether my ingestion of river water had left any permanent mark on my health. Left to my own devices, I could envisage any number of fearful scourges already besieging my constitution. I could torture myself also with the more tangible evidence of the note left by Lady Maud. I took it out of my pocket to read again the lines that wished such a terrible fate upon my friend.

"Does that note worry you, Watson?"

I glanced up to find that Holmes had awoken. He had pushed the travelling cap that had fallen over his eyes further up his brow and was regarding me with a sleepy, though inquiring gaze.

"It is a vile thing," I answered. "How long have been awake?"

"Long enough to hear you fretting over that worthless piece of paper." He held out his hand and I passed it across to him. "Second-hand curses from the dead worry me less than first-hand threats from the living, and then very little."

"Second-hand?"

"You do not recognise the allusion? Lucius Servianus I believe was the writer's name. Such was his last missive to the Emperor Hadrian, who had ordered his suicide. The parallel is hardly exact." He refolded the note. "Do you require this for future reference?"

I shook my head. At this, he took out a match, struck it and let the flame consume the paper.

"There," said he, extinguishing the blackened remains. "Now you may rest easy at night. You do intend to make notes of this case, I trust?"

"For your records, yes."

"Ah, then you do not propose to write an account of the case?"

"I thought you might prefer it if I did not."

Holmes's gaze turned to the window and the passing procession of hedges and trees.

"Lestrade informed me that the particulars of this tragedy will never likely become public knowledge. Too many people have a vested interest in wishing to avoid a scandal. The dead will be buried and their secrets with them. But…"

Again, he paused and in the time it took him to draw a breath I saw that he had been giving the matter a great deal of consideration.

"If there is shame here, it does not lie with the murdered girl, but with the family who took her life and then sought to conceal all trace of her existence. If we allow the official channels to take the course of action they see fit, will we not be guilty of failing her once again? We could not prevent her death, but it does lie within our powers to ensure that her name and story are never forgotten. A few words in the right ears should send those denizens of the press scurrying down to Addleton to sniff out the facts. Mrs Lacey and the regulars at the Dog and Duck will, I am sure, be glad to furnish them with the details."

"Then they will surely hear of your involvement," said I.

A tight smile passed across his lips. "You may be sure that many a tall story will be spun over the cauliflower wine in the retelling. It is only a pity that I did not add my teeth marks to those of Cromwell's horse on the bar to add further spice to their tales!"

I could not help myself from chuckling. We shared a brief moment of amusement before Holmes sobered.

"For the sake of accuracy, therefore," said he, "one would hope that you might see your way to writing your own account in due course of time. I fear I must suspend my normal diffidence on this occasion in the interests of justice."

It was not the line I had expected Holmes to take. Of late, he was inclined to shy away from the merest hint of acclaim. The fact that he was prepared to countenance public exposure told of deeply he had been touched by the affair. It was a decision with which I concurred.

"Very well, Holmes," said I. "Do you wish me to omit particular names?"

"You mean Perry? No, let it stand. I'm sure it will amuse him greatly to see his name in print. Either write it as it happened or do not write it at all. There are no half measures."

"Everything?" I inquired.

He returned my gaze with raised brows. "You have something specific in mind?"

"Some of our recent conversations have hardly been to our credit. The last time we travelled in each other's company like this, I accused you of certain failings."

"Yes, I remember."

Of course he did. It was not the sort of discussion one forgets in a hurry.

"My words were unwarranted," I said. "I spoke out of misplaced anger and ignorance."

"You must have _thought_ those things at some time, Watson, otherwise it would have never occurred to you to speak as you did."

"I regret it now. In light of what has happened in the past few days, it does not seem so very important."

"Then you do yourself a disservice," said he, adjusting his position to sit a little taller in his seat. "Everything is important and a denial of that fact only serves to trivialise human existence. You were perfectly entitled to speak your mind and I allow that the accusation was in some part valid."

"Which part?"

"Let us not split hairs, my dear fellow. You claimed that I have never been entirely honest with you. From my point of view, honesty did not come into it. It was a question of priorities, of what mattered and what did not. One man's omission may be another man's lie, which as I recall was the particular charge you levelled at me."

"Amongst other things."

He gave this due consideration. "If I had known that my return was destined to be such bitter gall to you, then I would have endeavoured to keep the truth of my survival hidden forever."

It saddened me beyond words to hear him express such a sentiment. "Do not say such a thing, even in jest," said I.

"Oh, but I am most serious. A man may work as well in the shadows as in the light of day. Added to which, there are certain advantages to being dead. One is presented with a blank page with which to create new opportunities and experiment with new ideas, freed from the trammels into which one is thrust by society."

"Is that how you viewed your escape from death at the Falls? A chance for freedom?"

"For myself, no," he replied mutedly. "I did not lie three years ago when I told you that I would be a dangerous companion. That state persisted throughout my prolonged absence. It would have been unconscionable for me to continue to expose you to peril when you had a wife waiting for your return. I am glad to say that my decision was vindicated by later events. But for that one mistake by Moran, I might still be floating around Europe and enduring a limbo existence. That was not a life I would have wished on anyone, least of all you."

"I would have liked to have made that choice for myself."

"Undoubtedly. That is the luxury of hindsight. In the heat of the moment, however, one is forced to make decisions that one may come to question in time."

"And did you?"

"Had there been another way, never doubt that I would have seized it with both hands. As it happened, I never imagined that I would be forced to maintain the pretence for so long. The more time passed, the easier it became to live the lie and the harder to end it."

"Why?"

"Because for others, yourself included, life had moved on. Three years is a long time to be away, perhaps, one might argue, too long. As Lady Maud noted, people forget."

"You were never forgotten, Holmes," I reassured him.

He nodded in silent acknowledgement and sighed. "Well, what's done is done and there's no changing it now. We must make the best of the hand we have been dealt and see how the game plays out. I hope your mind has been settled to some extent on this point."

"It has."

"Good, because given my time over again, I do not think I would have acted differently. I would rather have you estranged and alive in the world than to have your death on my conscience. As for my relations, well, you have met Perry. Would own up to a kinship with such a fellow?"

I laughed. "He was not as bad as all that."

Holmes smiled. "Certainly he is more agreeable than either of his brothers. By the by, is our continued harmony dependent on your meeting them? I refused Perry's invitation, but it still stands, if you so wish."

"Not at all."

"That is as well, for you would not have rubbed along so easily with Endymion."

"He has an aversion to medical men?"

"No, to marriage."

"In what sense?"

"In the sense that he disapproves of it. He read somewhere once that it weakens a man's resolve and spoils a woman's beauty. Or is it the other way around? I can never remember. In any case, it is a theory he sets much store by."

"I am not sure that he would find many to agree with him."

"He can be very persuasive. Indeed, the bishop had to remove him from his parish because he terrified the local people into celibacy. I do believe the birth rate there has yet to recover."

"Extraordinary!"

"As good a description as one might apply to any of us. It is just as well that we are not on good terms as a family, for who knows of what we might be capable should we stand together?"

"Then it is as well for the rest of us that you do not."

"There is too much animosity for that, have no fear. As for Perry, I doubt we shall see him again. He has only intruded upon us now because he was in need. Had he never become embroiled in this affair, then you might never have known of his existence. As it is, I do not see that we have gained much by the experience."

"I would not say that, Holmes. A murderer has been exposed."

He gave a considered nod. "Well, perhaps that is something to be said in his favour."

"Which reminds me," said I. "You never did tell me how you knew 'Inspector Rose' was an impostor."

"Ah, that," he said lightly. "Well, then it was because he was too convincing."

"I do not follow."

"Do you remember the first time we saw him? A child could have deduced that he wished to present the appearance of an old soldier. He even had his military medals hanging out of his pocket to complete his disguise. I perceived that he wished us to believe in his charade and so went along with the pretence to see where it led. That tale of his going to visit his mother's grave was nothing more than an invention to place him beyond suspicion, which he took great pains to do. In all probability, he had not strayed far beyond the environs of Addleton House."

"But how did you know it was a pretence?"

"My suspicions were first aroused by the direction from which he had come, the same as where your mystery horseman had vanished. He had been keeping watch on our progress and reverted to his alias as Inspector Rose to find out what we knew. But it was the cigarette that really betrayed him."

I shook my head to indicate that I was still mystified. In answer, Holmes took a cigarette from his case.

"The manner in which a man smokes can be most instructive. One of these days, I shall finish my monograph on the subject. In the case of Inspector Rose, here was a man professing to be a former Lance Corporal, smoking in the manner of an officer and a gentleman, like so."

He held the cigarette twixt his first and middle finger to demonstrate his point.

"However, a true non-commissioned officer, a man who had risen from the ranks of private would smoke thus." Pinching the cigarette between his fingers and thumb as he placed it to his mouth, he smiled from behind his hand as he saw the light of understanding come to my eyes. "I am surprised you have not noticed the distinction before, Watson, given your military service."

"Holmes, that is quite—"

"Elementary?"

"I was going to say extraordinary."

"I shall have to take your word for that. Given that this man was lying, therefore, and then taking into account Lady Maud's questioning of you about her son, I was alerted to the possibility that Aloysius Stoke was alive and within earshot. I wonder, Watson, who convinced the other of the necessity of eliminating you? I would wager the mother, since the concern was all on her side. It was not for news of her son that she asked, but out of fear that you _might _remember him. A dangerous family, the Stokes. Addleton, I dare say, will not be sorry to see the last of them."

As it transpired, Holmes's prediction proved accurate. In the next few months, the public thrilled with horror to the tales that abounded from that quiet corner of Wiltshire of the Addleton tragedy and the singular contents of the ancient British barrow.

Addleton House was purchased by Mr Enoch Pearce, who proved to be a more considerate landlord than his predecessors. He saw to it that the river was dammed and the church restored to its former glory. No more would Mrs Hackett go a-wandering on the rising flood waters.

Mr Bickerstaff did return to Addleton to complete the excavation of the barrow and subsequently discovered that the grave robbers of previous generations had not penetrated the heart of the mound. There, he found a Bronze Age warrior, buried with his weapons and the skeleton of a pony. Some say how the disturbance of these ancient bones caused his spirit to haunt Long Meadow, where a spectral rider in furs has been sighted on dark and stormy nights.

Whatever the truth of the identity of this mystery horseman, it is certain that he haunts Addleton alone. No explanation was ever offered for the phenomenon we saw that night on the bridge and to my knowledge it has never been seen again. River mist or the spirit of the murdered girl, Holmes and I will never be in agreement.

I considered myself lucky to have brought home nothing more sinister than the common cold, which, Holmes claims, I promptly passed to him. Given that we had both suffered a thorough soaking that night, I thought the charge somewhat unfair. However, I was beyond arguing with him on such an insignificant point. With the resolution of those matters which lay between us, a shared infection was as nothing.

As for Peregrine Holmes, he did find his way into print again with a revised edition of his masterly monograph on _'The Highways and Byways of the Ancient Britons and the Implications for Early Trade Routes'_. Events conspired to make our paths cross again, sooner than any of us expected, and in the most unfortunate circumstances. But that is quite another story.

**The End**

* * *

_Well, goodbye Addleton. Possibly goodbye Perry – we might see you agai__n, who knows?_

_I hope you've all enjoyed it. My thanks to everyone for reading. Huge thanks to everyone who took the time to leave reviews, offer suggestions or PM'ed me._

_And if you're dubious about ghostly Bronze Age horsemen, one was sighted on several occasions in Dorset, England, in the 1920s. Who said truth was stranger than fiction?_

* * *

_**Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson are the creations are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Characters and incidents mentioned in this work are entirely fictitious. This work of fan fiction has not been created for profit nor**__** authorised**__** by any official body.**_


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